The Palmer's Kiss
by dearjayycee
Summary: Mycroft needed to understand he could never tell John. Sherlock couldn't go back, he could never go back, not since his world turned black.
1. The Bond of Brothers

This first chapter is extremely short because I wanted it to just set up what was going on instead of having to do that later. This story at the moment is completely unbeta'd so if anyone would like to do that please message me.

-Jennifer

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He could hear the tired, shaking intakes of breath. The only person who would stand in the room for this long without saying anything was Mycroft Holmes. His brother was standing by the door; he didn't bother facing him because doing so was useless.

"Mycroft, I know you are standing there." A sigh left his mouth at the end of the statement. Sherlock hated the way his brother thought he could just stand around without being noticed.

"How?" It wasn't said in the normal Mycroft Holmes arrogant tone-his voice only held curiosity. Sherlock couldn't tell if that was better or worse.

"You're a mouth breather; you always have been." He turned over in the hospital bed, facing away from his brother. He closed his eyes when they started to feel sore.

Sherlock lay in bed for a while, unmoving. It was a good ten minutes before Mycroft broke the stillness by sitting on the edge of the bed. The situation was awkward even though they were brothers. They had never been close. If anything they had a very business-like relationship. At least, that's how it had been until the fall. Apparently the thought of losing your brother and being the cause of it made Mycroft rethink how he interacted with Sherlock.

"How are you Sherlock?" He placed his hand awkwardly on Sherlock's boney hip. He probably thought it would be a comforting gesture. It wasn't.

"Just peachy, Mycroft." He probably didn't need to be this rude to his brother but he hated it here-he hated everything about it. It had done nothing to help his foul mood.

"You might feel better if you told him." Sherlock knew the 'him' his brother was talking about was John.

"I can't," the words came out ragged. Sherlock could never see John again-he had hurt him so bad. He could hear the pain in John's voice when he had run to his body as it hit the ground. The way John had cried out to Sherlock while he lay on the ground, it had been heartbreaking. John had tried to check his pulse but he was removed before he could properly do it, and because of this John thought Sherlock was dead. Then again so had the EMT. Well, they'd thought that until they loaded him into the ambulance and he started groaning under the sheet covering his body. It was a miracle he was alive, the doctors had said. Sherlock did not agree.

"If you tell John I will kill you myself." He had to make sure that Mycroft would understand, and threating was the only way he could display what he meant anymore. Glaring wouldn't do the job; Mycroft needed to understand he could never tell John. He couldn't go back, he could never go back, not since his world turned black.

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Could you guys please review, it makes writing so much more rewarding to know people are actually liking what I am doing.

Even if you don't I still love writing.


	2. Thursday's Angel

So this is the second chapter, I am sorry that this is unbeta'd at the moment but I hope you like it nonetheless.

-Jennifer

Also I was feeling in the mood for super angsty so beware.

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"I am truly sorry, Mr. Holmes. I'm afraid you will never regain your eyesight. There is too much damage to the optic nerve, though I am truly surprised you survived at all." The doctor was hovering over his body and he hated it. Sherlock didn't like people hovering when he _could_ see and losing his sight certainly didn't help. It made him extremely anxious to have some stranger standing around without being able to know exactly what they were doing. He felt so insecure. He was so used to being able to look at a person and know almost everything about them.

For once in his life Sherlock Holmes felt utterly helpless.

-.X.-

"It's nice to see you, Mycroft." Mrs. Hudson looked more aged then ever, as if she hadn't slept properly in months. Her eyes had lost their spirit. He couldn't look her in the eye any longer once he realized the change. Sherlock was still causing them to suffer, which was the reason he had yet to come back. Sometimes Mycroft thought his little brother was a bit daft when it came to people.

"Mrs. Hudson, can I come in? I have a note to leave for John." He felt horrid that he knew his brother was alive and he had yet to tell her. He would have said something then and there, since he had already decided to disobey Sherlock's wishes, but he thought John should be the first to know.

"Of course, dear." She smiled but it didn't reach her eyes. He automatically regretted looking. She moved from the doorway to let him pass, and with a half-hearted, "close the door on your way out," she was gone.

Mycroft walked up the stairs and paused at the door. He wanted to make sure that this was the right decision for his brother. In the end he knew it had to be, so he edged the door open. The apartment was stale and dusty, the coffee table littered with mugs full of both tea and mold. Sherlock really was an idiot. Mycroft gathered all the cups and emptied the syrupy liquid into the sink before putting them into the dishwasher. If it were anyone but John, Mycroft would have never done this.

When he was through with the mugs he placed his note to John on the computer and gave the apartment one last glace as he turned to leave. Before he got to the door he thought it best to go get a change or two of clothes for Sherlock. As he approached Sherlock's ex-room he had an epiphany; yes, this was one hundred percent the right thing to do for Sherlock, and for John if the sight in front of him was anything to go by.

John was lying in Sherlock's bed, curled around as many of the pillows on the bed as he could get his hands on. His nose and cheeks were blotchy and red. His eyes were puffy, and it seemed as if he was having a nightmare. Mycroft would have woken him up to ease his sorrow a little but he didn't think John would appreciate Mycroft finding him in such a compromising situation.

-.X.-

It was the same nightmare that had haunted him since that tragic Thursday, the same horrid nightmare. Sherlock was standing up on the roof, mouthing something down at John, though John was never sure what it was. It was always three words and John was always too fixated on the movement of Sherlock's lips to figure out what it was he was trying to tell him.

The fall…Sherlock's fall-started. His nightmare made it seem like the raven-haired man was falling for hours before John would wake up just as Sherlock's body hit the ground, spraying John with blood.

He woke covered in sweat. It was always this same dream. It always started in the same place and ended with him waking up soaked in perspiration with tears in his eyes. He hated this, this fright of sleep. He hated sleeping now, hated closing his eyes, and every time he did Sherlock's fall would play out again in his head. The death of his best friend would be forever engraved in his mind.

He wiped his brow and threw his feet over the edge of the bed, sitting there for a while. He finally decided to get up and make some tea and grabbed the robe that was hanging on the back of the bedroom door. Shrugging it on, he inhaled the smell of Sherlock on the collar. Unfortunately, the smell was almost gone.

He put on a kettle of water and pulled out two mugs from the cupboard, placing them on the counter. When the water had come to a boil he filled them and then carried them to the coffee table.

He wasn't surprised to find the mugs that had once sat on the table had been cleared; Mrs. Hudson would come in every once in a while to clean up the dishes and leave some food in the fridge for him. He placed the second mug down and started to drink his own. "Is my tea not good enough?" He had said this to himself every day that Sherlock wasn't there. He constantly wondered if that was the reason Sherlock was gone. It was easier for him this way, to continuously tell himself that Sherlock was just away, not dead. He had convinced himself it was the tea.

Once John finished his drink, he walked over to his desk only to slump down in the chair and look out the window…well, what little he could see outside of the window. All the curtains in 221B Baker St. had been closed for months now. The lack of sunlight had made his skin pale. He looked down at his hands; they weren't the same caramel color they had been that day. At long last he noticed there was a precarious piece of paper sitting on his laptop.

_We need to talk, call me. MH_

Mycroft wasn't the Holmes he wanted to talk to. He crumpled up the paper and laid it on the desk. John couldn't be bothered to talk to Mycroft anymore; there was nothing in it for him now.

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I hope everyone got the SPN (supernatural) reference.

La la la.


	3. A Lesson In Falling

John sat at his desk playing around with a sad crumpled piece of paper, contemplating what to do with it. The main thing running through his head was _What could it be that Mycroft wants?_ He unfolded the paper, balls it back up and smoothed it out again. The words there had become faded by the copious amount of times the small piece of paper had been re-crumpled.

Ashen hands pulled out a cell phone from his robe pocket. He dialed Mycroft's number and stared down at the phone for a while. The itching need to call this man to see what he wanted would not go away so he finally hit the call button, holding the phone up to his ear.

The phone was answered after two rings. "What took you a week, John?" Mycroft sound slightly peeved, most likely due to the time he was forced to wait for John's call.

"I'm not sure." John wasn't sure why he had called Mycroft at all. His body slumped farther into his chair. All the memories that Mycroft's voice brought back caused him so much pain.

"Nevertheless, I need you to come meet me at Café Le Rouge at noon." It was a statement, there was no questioning to whether he would come or not, and even though John heard this in his voice he began to protest but was cut off by the dial tone. He sat there for a while with the phone glued to his ear, consumed by the thought of what Mycroft needed from him. Maybe Mycroft was just planning on apologizing again for causing Sherlock's death. John couldn't handle that again; it felt like Mycroft was begging John for forgiveness, and John was never sure why he thought John could give it to him. Mycroft had killed the only person who could grant him the forgiveness he sought.

-.X.-

John was already ten minutes late when he arrived. Mycroft was peeved but at the same time he couldn't be mad at John. Mycroft was mad at himself and his brother, but never John. John thought Sherlock was dead and Sherlock was letting him. And Mycroft hadn't done anything to stop it. It was time for this to end. Mycroft was finally going to tell John. Well, he was going to take John to the hospital to surprise them both.

Mycroft noticed John looked as if he hadn't washed up in a week or so…smelt it, too. John took the seat across from Mycroft and picked up the menu, looking at it for only a few seconds and then setting it back down. He looked completely uninterested in everything around him.

When the waitress approached Mycroft order for both of them since John seemed to not even notice her. "Can we both have a bowl of the soup of the day?"

"Yes, of course. And what would you like to drink with that?"

"I think two teas will do fine." Mycroft glanced at the nametag hanging from her ample bosom. "Thank you, Miss Melody Pond." The waitress walked off, her hips shaking with every step she took. John cleared his throat, signaling to Mycroft that he had been caught staring. John looked mildly disgusted with his gawking.

"So what did you need me for? I am about ready to go home." The blond man sat and twiddled with his hands, unable to keep still any longer.

"John, we need to talk." Mycroft's face was marred with a stony frown and John could tell he meant business. John completely ignored it. What did it matter to him?

"Do we?" John had lost all interest in what was going on around him. He seemed as if everything about him had lost that spark that made him John.

"Yes, John, we do. After lunch I have something to show you."

"Is that so?"

Mycroft ignored John in favor of the waitress and then their meal. They ate in silence. Well, Mycroft ate. John just sat and picked at his food.

-.X.-

John was beyond unsure of why Mycroft and himself were currently walking into the hospital. The head nurse gave them a curt nod as they walked by which seemed strange. He didn't know what he was expecting. It smelt like death, albeit it was a clean death, and the lights were entirely too bright. John kept his eyes trained on his feet, barely registering the many hellos going Mycroft's way.

He almost hit Mycroft when he stopped in front of the door. Mycroft gave John a little smile over his shoulder. John did not understand - hospitals where hardly a smiling matter.

Mycroft opened the door, standing to the side giving John a clear view of who was lying on the hospital bed. Sherlock. Time stopped, everything stopped.

All he could see was Sherlock, and then he was falling.

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I am so sorry this took so long. I had the worst kind of writers block.


	4. The Anger of a Ex-Army Doctor

This chapter is really short. As a writer I am most comfortable with short chapters, it's less daunting to write that way.

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Mycroft wasn't surprised when John fainted. Actually, it was much better than what he was expecting. He grabbed John's waist as his body when slack.

For the first time in months Sherlock's glare had the intensity that it once held, though he was staring at the door directly behind Mycroft and not at Mycroft himself. "See what you did? I told you not to bring him here! You promised."

Mycroft just shook his head. "This was for the best, Sherlock." He didn't seem to have the least bit of nervousness in his voice, but if he knew what was coming it would probably be a whole other story.

Sherlock jumped out of the bed, stumbling as he went, and started for where he believed Mycroft to be. Fortunately for him, he had gotten good at locating the general direction of a voice. He reached out and grabbed John, pulling him towards the bed.

"Mycroft, help me!" he gritted out through his teeth. Mycroft took slow, deliberate steps… and it was thoroughly pissing Sherlock off. "Mycroft Holmes," he growled out, "if you don't help me with John, I swear to some unknown celestial being…" he trailed off as he struggled with John's dead weight. Mycroft sighed in annoyance but finally moved to help Sherlock with his flat-mate. Together they lifted John into the hospital bed. Settling him in, Sherlock stood there and looked down at where he figured John should be.

"Why did you do this?" There was so much hurt in his voice. He just couldn't understand why his brother had deliberately gone behind his back and brought the one person he wanted to keep in the dark to the hospital to see him

Mycroft couldn't answer his question at the moment, not yet. He didn't want Sherlock to know the sight he had walked in on in 221B, he didn't think his little brother would be able to process it. "I'll go get a nurse to make sure he's okay."

Sherlock glared icily where he thought the door was and reached down to touch John's face. His fingers were barely brushing his cheek yet he remembered perfectly what this part of John looked like. He fiercely wished that he could see John's face instead of just a memory.

-.X.-

John's eyes shot open, his body jerking upright abruptly. He was in a hospital…_why was he in the hospital? _ He looked to the right and then the left. He closed his eyes and counted to three, then opened them again. And then he saw him. He was there…Sherlock. Sherlock was perched on a chair next to the bed John was lying on, just sitting there staring at him.

"Why?" The question came out so much softer than he wanted. It sounded weak and choked, as if he was going to tear up. Sherlock's face didn't change and that pissed him off more than he wanted to admit. "Why?!" he shouted. Anger quickly made its way to the surface and John couldn't help but lash out. "Why did you try to kill yourself and then not come back when you were alive?! Why did you leave me?" The resentment in John's voice had boiled over and Sherlock could hear his voice break with the last question. He was so mad he was crying.

"John can you just stop for one second?" His voice was cautious but steady.

"No! I will not! Why did you do that to me?" John hated this feeling. He wanted to scream and yell at everything and everyone. He especially wanted to get his hands on Mycroft. The bastard knew that Sherlock was alive all this time and did _nothing _about it until now. His hands were shaking and he took deep breaths to try and calm himself down.

"John, please just stop." Sherlock rose from the chair, moving as close to the bed as he could, and gently pushed John down. His hands danced their way up to John's face. When they found it, Sherlock caressed the skin, fingers splayed against one cheek.

John's fury evaporated immediately when he looked into Sherlock's eyes. They weren't looking at him, he realized. The blue depths were directed to his face but didn't focus on it. They lacked that fixation that lets you know you are being watched. Reality hit John like a ton of bricks and he suddenly forgot how to breathe. He lied in the bed, completely gob-smacked.

"Sherlock…you can't see me. Can you?"

"No, John. I can't."

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Nothing here. Tell me what you think, if you care too.


	5. Bed of the Dead

I will be posting two more chapters tonight.

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John sat Mrs. Hudson down on the couch in her flat. This was the kind of thing you sat someone down for, what he was about to tell her. He was anxious to see the look on her face when he finally told her. Would she be angry about being the last to know? Would she break down in tears of happiness? He had been indescribably relived to find out his best friend was alive. He was sure Mrs. Hudson would feel the same.

"So what is it, John?" She looked bored in her own un-insulting way, sitting there as if her own child died (though she probably did think of Sherlock as a son). John wondered if he'd looked like that, too, before the hospital. He thought not. It didn't seem quite the same.

"Well, I found something out today."

"And what would that be, John?" Her eyes held a little bit of curiosity. At least she was semi interested in what he had to say.

He grabbed her hands and held them in his own, rubbing his thumbs over the aged skin. " Sherlock is alive." That was all he needed to say. He didn't need to draw it out any longer. What would be the point?

She gasped, tears cascading from her eyes. "John...don't lie to me." Her voice held so much pain. He hated hearing her like that.

"Dear, I'm not." John gripped Mrs. Hudson's hands harder, but not hard enough to hurt her. "Stay here. Mycroft and Sherlock are waiting outside." He walked to the door and looked back at Mrs. Hudson who was craning her neck to try and see around his body. He opened the door to Mycroft standing there with Sherlock right behind him. He still couldn't believe that Sherlock was alive.

John moved aside to let the other men in. He stared at Sherlock who turned his head towards John, like he could feel the caress of his eyes. He was too engrossed with looking at Sherlock to notice Mrs. Hudson running their way. It seemed like the Sherlock didn't see it coming either for he nearly toppled over when she tackled him with a hug. She held him tight, buried her face in his Belstaff coat, and cried.

Sherlock held her firmly but in the most awkward way, like this was the first time he had ever been hugged. _Was it?_ John felt it should have been him and he wasn't sure why.

Once Mrs. Hudson finally let go of Sherlock, she stomped over to Mycroft and hit him on the arm lightly. "You were over here the other day. Why didn't you tell me then, Mycroft Holmes?" She tried to make the scowling a joke but everyone could tell she was extremely frustrated.

-.X.-

"Here's your tea, dears," Mrs. Hudson said as she sat a tray full of tea down on the coffee table and settled next to John on the couch. They sat staring at Sherlock who was perched on the chair across from them.

"Could you both stop st…." Sherlock didn't finish his sentence. He felt ashamed but he'd never admit it. For what he did to them…they had a right to stare.

They sat around, sipping tea and having the lightest most awkward conversation. Mrs. Hudson, to Sherlock's pleasure, did not ask about going blind. He knew that she had figured it out by the sudden gasp she'd let slip earlier. He guessed she would ask about it later, hopefully much, much later.

Mycroft left a while after. Sherlock gave John a pointed look as soon as the door closed behind his brother, signaling it was time for them to turn in. John wasn't sure how he knew that's what the look on Sherlock's face meant but he got up and said goodnight to Mrs. Hudson nonetheless. Sherlock did the same and followed him.

Once in their flat, John decided he was much too exhausted from the day's rollercoaster of emotions to do anything else but go straight to bed. This was his first mistake. Turning in meant his body automatically went to go where it had been sleeping for months - Sherlock's old room. Well, Sherlock's current room now. He opened the door and took a step inside. _What am I doing?! _John thought to himself.

He glanced over his shoulder, his neck popping because of how fast he moved it, and suppressed a sigh of relief. Sherlock didn't even notice John's mistake. "Well here you go," John walks out of the bedroom, hoping that the gangly man before him only thought he was helping him to his room.

"Thank you, John. Goodnight." Sherlock closed the door, listening to John walk away, and fumbled his way to the dresser. He knew exactly where it was; the rest was just a matter of depth perception. He remembered where everything was but had never bothered to figure out the measurements of objects and where they were located in terms of everything else. _First project starting tomorrow: measure all of the furniture in the house and make a mental map. _He found the dresser and retrieved a pair of nightclothes. Once changed, he flipped the light switch and slouched into his pillows, inhaling deeply.

"It smells like…" _John_. Saying it out loud would have been weird.

His bed reeks of John, it smelt of something that was entirely John but he wasn't quite sure what. It wasn't bad or good, just John. Enclosed in this cocoon of John, Sherlock finally he realized what he had done to the other man. He'd hurt him, so much so that he felt the need to sleep in Sherlock's bed.

He'd hurt them all – Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft. He hated himself for doing this to them. He hated himself more for feeling this way. Most of all he hated himself for hurting John.

He drifted off to sleep wishing for nothing more than to delete the pain in his chest that he didn't understand.

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Please review, it makes me all warm and fluffy inside when I see them :D


	6. The Domestic Life of John and Sherlock

One more chapter for the night guys:D

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It was weird waking up here, in his own bed and not in Sherlock's. Even though it felt strange, it was the best night's sleep he'd had in three months. _Sherlock is alive_. He wasn't going to wake up and find Sherlock gone again. Still, sleeping in his own bed felt alien, wrong.

He put on his own bathrobe, which had been hanging unused on the back of his door for all the time Sherlock had been away, and headed out to their living room. Sherlock was sitting in one of the armchairs, not particularly doing anything. Or at least, it looked like that to John. He was just visionless-ly staring at the blocked out windows.

"John, don't you think it smells stale and moldy in here?" Sherlock's voice was flat. There was no emotion behind the words; they were just said.

John moved to open a window, pulling back the curtains and letting the fresh air in. He noted that it was a nice day, not that he really wanted to be outside.

"Ah you…came back…just before cleaning day."

Sherlock didn't believe him. He ran his had along the side table, a layer of dust coming off on his fingers. He wasn't quite sure why John was lying to him. "Is that so?" Sherlock asked with the smallest of smirks.

John ignored him in favor of heading to the kitchen to put a kettle on. He mulled around, watching Sherlock while he waited for the water to come to a boil. When the kettle started to whistle he pulled down two cups, filled them with water and placed a bag of tea in each one. He headed over to the armchairs, sitting in the one directly across from Sherlock, and handed the cup to the other man Sherlock waited about ten minutes before finally taking a sip.

"How's the tea?" John just wants to know his tea is good enough.

Sherlock can hear the strange need in his voice, he hopes John hears it too. He's not sure why he feels the need to reassure John in his tea making skills, but it seems nessacary for some reason. "This is the best tea I have had in months."

The yearning in John's voice has yet to disappear when he lets out a shaky "So it's good enough?"

"Perfect." He isn't sure what the meaning behind his own words is – but they just seem to be the right words for the situation. Sherlock tries not to overanalyze what he just said, even though he does anyway. What did he mean by_ perfect_? It came out of his own mouth so he probably should know. But he has no idea what it was, what it meant.

Sherlock feels utterly ridiculous, reassuring John and then blushing for no reason. He was so unsure of what was going on.

John smiled. He didn't know why he is smiled but he did anyway. He was extremely grateful Sherlock couldn't see it, and then realized that was a horrible thing to think. Still, he smiled.

John looked up just in time to see the end of a blush fading from Sherlock's skin.

-.X.-

John spent the rest of the day cleaning the apartment from top to bottom. The overpowering smell of cleaners nearly made him gag. The flat had probably never been this clean and he doubted it ever would be again. His hands and knees ached from trying to scrub the floor clean of all the questionable stains on it.

By the time John finished it was lunchtime. He retrieved some spaghetti from the refrigerator, warmed it up and divided it into two bowls, grateful for Mrs. Hudson and her cooking skills. He grabbed two forks on his way to the living room where Sherlock was still lounging in the armchair.

They sat eating for a while in complete silence. It wasn't comfortable, but rather heavy and awkward. The tension was palpable.

"This feels extremely domestic, doesn't it?"

John looked up from his food. Sherlock was sitting there blindly looking at him. They started to chuckle. At first their laughter was soft and slight, but soon it grew and they were both doubling over with the force of it.

When they finally calmed down the air was completely cleared of the awkwardness it once held.

"I missed you."

Sherlock didn't answer him, only turning his head to the open window. But John wasn't offended. He didn't expect any sort of sentiment from Sherlock. He was Sherlock Holmes, after all. They finished their lunch in quiet but it was comfortable this time.

Just as John got up to take the dishes to the sink he heard a soft "I missed you as well, John."

He looked back to see Sherlock facing the window, letting all the sun's rays kiss his skin.

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I hope you liked it:D


	7. Abuse of the Word Unsure

They ended up having dinner with Mrs. Hudson. Actually that's about how the whole next week went. John would wake up to Sherlock sitting in his chair, they would drink tea, Sherlock would assure him the tea was _perfect_, and then they would sit and talk for hours. It was all extremely domestic. Once the sun fell they would have Mrs. Hudson over and they would all eat dinner and chat together about nothing in general. It was nice, this feeling of _normalcy_.

-.X.-

Sherlock woke when he heard whimpers coming from John's room. He didn't know why, but John was in pain and he had to go to him. John had been so good to him since he'd come back home…he had done so much. Sherlock could do nothing and it hurt him, to feel this useless. All he did all day was sit in his chair and chat with John. He had to put on his best bored-face and fight through his own self-disgust. He would think about this later – for now he needed to get to John.

He fumbled down the hall to John's room and scolded himself for not already mapping out the path; he hated fumbling about like an Anderson. He still moved as fast as he could, barging in without knocking. Sherlock realized he had never been in John's room before. He wished he had when he'd had his eyesight. He wanted to see what John called home, or at least what was his personal space within their apartment. He wasn't sure where anything was in John's room so it took some stumbling about. Luckily or unluckily, depending on how he was looking at it, John whimpered, making it easier for Sherlock. He walked up to the bed wondering how John's faced looked when he was in pain. He knew the thought was wrong, but he thought it anyway.

The quietest broken mumble of "Sherlock…" fell from John's lips.

"Oh, I see." He suddenly understood the whimpering mess John is at the moment. He was having a nightmare about Sherlock's almost death. John was still in pain…. This realization hit him like a bus. John was scarred. He left a mark on John that would never go away and it pleased him. He wasn't sure why but the thought of leaving a lasting stamp on John's soul made him more than excited. It made him not think too much about what he did next. He got into the bed, pushing John over slightly. The broken man beside him was still whimpering and most likely crying in his sleep. Sherlock pulled him closer, though he wasn't really sure what he was doing. John's sobs subsided a little, letting Sherlock know he was doing the right thing. Encouraged, he flung an arm over John's body and pulled his face to his chest.

"It's okay, John, I'm here, I'm alive." The other man relaxed a bit but continued crying. Waking the man didn't seem right to Sherlock, so he pulled him closer, holding him tightly to his body.

He fell asleep thinking _This isn't so bad._

-.X.-

They didn't talk about it, as if it would ruin what they had (were?) if they did. He wasn't sure what to even call it, but Sherlock would come to him in the night every time he had the dream. John liked it. He didn't understand why but he did. He hated that lately he was so unsure and confused about everything.

One night all of that changed. It had been like every other day – extremely mundane. John had been having trouble sleeping so he lay awake in his room, not really doing anything but staring at the wall he knew was only a few feet in front of his face. He was shocked into silence when the door to his bedroom creaked open. _What could Sherlock want? _he almost said out loud as the other man got closer, but couldn't find the words. The way he was walking didn't seem like he was going to ask a question. It was strange, Sherlock standing at the side of his bed. It seemed as if Sherlock was contemplating his next move when he abruptly pulled back the covers and got in beside John. He shuffled closer and closer to John until he was lying only a few inches away. John was choking in the heat radiating from Sherlock's body. It felt as if it was 200 degrees under the covers. John decided it was best to play possum and act as if he was asleep.

Sherlock didn't know what John was thinking when the thought he could trick Sherlock by lying board still and breathing as softly as possible. He wasn't fooling anyone. Sherlock wasn't sure why he'd come to John's bed. He also wasn't sure why he got in John's bed. He wasn't quite sure of anything and for once he was completely okay with being blissfully ignorant. It didn't matter anyway because it was pretty much an unspoken rule between them that _nothing_ that happened at night would everbe talked about. In the morning Sherlock would get up first and then go wait in the living room for John to join him; that's just how it had been.

To John's surprise, Sherlock throw his arm over his waist, but did not pull him closer. His whole body started to tingle. This feeling was completely different than when Sherlock came to him during his nightmares. He couldn't tell if how he was feeling was bad or good. He had felt this same heat before but he'd rather not try and think of when or where.

They both lay awake the wholenight.

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It makes me so freaking happy to write for you guys.


	8. If I Wanted Poetry it Would Be Yours

Sherlock hated sitting around. All he wanted was to get up and move. His boredom was slowly eating away at his mind and knowing this he started going over every fact he had ever learned, repeating them all just trying to keep his mind sharp.

'_There are one hundred and eighteen elements on the periodic table. Actinium, aluminium, americium, antimony, argon, arsenic, astatine, barium, berkelium, beryllium, bismuth, bohrium…boring. Boron. Moron. Anderson.'_

His head went slack against the back of the chair he was currently seated on. He glared at the ceiling, trying his hardest to see past the darkness, trying desperately to see the light. He missed it…the light, the color, the textures. He had never really thought about it before now, the beauty that had been all around him. He had known the world around him was "beautiful" but Sherlock had never really understood the concept. Well, that was until right before his fall, the look on John's face. Most might think it was weird, looking down at the mass amount of grey that was London, that he found the beauty in life at that moment. John looking up at him with the air rushing through his hair and the sun burning his skin right before Sherlock leapt.

'_Life is such a fickle thing. What is a life really? Thermodynamic systems with molecular structure.' _At one point in time he would have said 'Yes that is all life is,' but know the best way he could descried it as a collection of memories and emotions. Though Sherlock knew something was missing from his new definition.

He had done that a lot lately, redefining his views on life.

Sherlock forced his body up from the chair, stretching his legs, his joints popping in response. He waded over to the bookcase that was on the other side of the room, running his fingertips across the spins, caressing each one as if it were a lover. Oh how he missed reading. Sherlock pulled out the one book he knew better than the back of his own hand. The leather binding was falling apart, the spine completely broken. He loved this book. Sherlock could whole-heartedly say he loved it. 'For Whom The Bells Toll' by Ernest Hemingway had been the first "adult" book he had read. His grandfather had given it to him at the tender age of five. That man had been really senile and thought he was his older brother at the time or he had understood Sherlock better than anyone else in his family.

Sherlock opened the book as gently as he could, he stared down at the blank pages. Sherlock could remember every word but he missed just seeing the way the words look on the page, how the letters curved, how the sentences were punctuated. He really did regret ever taking his eyesight for granted. Most of all he regretted pitying those whom were deaf, mute, or blind. They would never miss the things they'd never had.

He was knocked out of his thoughts by the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs, though it sounded as if John was carrying something heavy. Sherlock pushes the book back into place, not really wanting John to see him in this state of wanting.

-.X.-

John had seen it, those little glances towards where Sherlock knew paper or books were, those longing, needy, wanting glances at the written word. He really hated it, knowing his flat mate wanted so badly to read but couldn't. He had stayed up late last night looking for answers on what he could possibly do to ease Sherlock wanting. He had felt so stupid when he realized he had completely forgotten about the blind alternative to the written word: braille. He promptly looked up all the different blind aid products.

He had luckily found a store in the center of London that catered to the seeing impaired, everything in there was quite interesting and after about an hour of walking around the store and asking the clerk about every single item, he realized he must have been bothering the other man. John decided on getting a typewriter and a label maker. They both seemed like they would make the other man's life a little easier.

"So who are you buying these for, if you don't mind me asking?" The clerk was kind of lanky and had a thick Irish accent.

"Oh, it's for my flat mate." John reached in to his pocket pulling about his wallet and then pulling out his credit card.

"That's so nice of you, doing this for your flat mate." The other man gave him an odd little glance before telling him the total cost of his purchase. John paid, and left while saying thank you to the clerk.

He really did hope Sherlock enjoyed his gift, but then he thought to himself, '_maybe I should hold out on giving him the typewriter.' _He decided to keep the typewriter a secret until Christmas and type something up in the mean time.

-.X.-

Sherlock is sitting in the chair that he has recently been living in when John walks into the flat. He is just sitting there, staring out the window again.

"Sherlock, I'm home." John moved to hide the boxes behind his back before he realized he didn't need to…the other man couldn't see what he was holding whether he wanted to or not. John felt bad and he felt worse for making it something he should feel bad about to begin with. This was now their life and there was nothing wrong with it. This was just how it was going to be. He wondered if this was going to be the rest of his life…him and Sherlock, growing old together. The idea didn't bother him at all, in fact he wouldn't mind.

"Welcome home, John." Sherlock hears John move toward his room and he wants to ask what John is currently holding. He knew that even if he asked, John wouldn't answer. He wasn't sure how he knew this but he just did. Sherlock can hear John open his bedroom door and then his closet door, finally a thud sounds from that area letting Sherlock know that John had just put down the heavy object, most likely a box.

He hated John thinking it was okay to hide things from him now that he was blind. Sherlock knew that it wasn't Johns fault, it was no one's fault…well, it was minutely Mycroft's fault but he had already forgiven his brother. He thought he should probably tell the other man this…that he had forgiven him, but he sort of liked his new relationship with his brother. Although, he wouldn't say that he was enjoying it to the other man anytime soon.

-.X.-

John waited up for two hours after his flat mate had gone to bed before jumping out of his warm cocoon of blankets. He had waited this long to see if it was one of the nights that Sherlock would be joining him, it seemed like it was not.

He walked as quietly as possible into the living room, turning on a small lamp so that he could see what he was doing. John pulled the only book from the bookcase that had been worn down by wear and tear. Quickly, he turned off the lights and headed back to his room. He then retrieved the typewriter out of his closet, unboxing it and setting it on his bed.

When he had been researching braille products last night he had come across braille bookstores. But when he visited those bookstores, they did not carry the book that he was searching for, Sherlock's favorite book. It was all quite unfair, so John came up with a brilliant idea. He was determined to see this through, though this would be a massive task that he probably wouldn't finish until right before Christmas.

He must have typed the first page a good ten times before he got it grammatically correct.

-.X.-

John got bored with retyping 'For Whom the Bells Toll' so he just started typing on the next blank page whatever came to mind. The first few lines came easily and then the rest came out slowly and it all made him slightly confused. He wasn't sure what he meant by the words, he just knew he was typing them. Even though it was in braille he knew what it said by heart, he placed it on his bedside table before crawling under the covers.

` _"My heart is a fickle beast that never seems to calm._

_One second it wants you pressed against my skin, the next it wants you completely gone._

_It beats against my chest like a never resting drum, but when you're near I lose my breath and the rhythm in my chest breaks Kevlar at its best._

_My ribs crack from the inside from your torturous abuse, my tongue-ties itself in knots whenever I test its use. _

_My body heats up to a hundred and two degrees but worst of all, my want for you brings me to my knees._

_And when I think my efforts to impress you might be known, it turns out all my suffering is in vain and my efforts have gone unknown. _

_Most of all I want you to feel this way too. I want to share this unimaginable suffering with you._

_That's what love is in the end, isn't that true? Two hearts bound in torment, nearly tearing in two."_

* * *

So I wrote that poem myself and if you like it you should check out my poetry blog on tumblr... shippinglikethebritisharmada


	9. In the Thick of It

"Sherlock?" They sat across from each other casually sipping tea, not really doing anything other than talking.

"Yes, John?" Sherlock took a sip, "by the way, John, the tea is perfect." That statement was no longer odd, it was now routine. It would have been odd if he didn't say it.

"Let's go out for dinner tonight." John hated that Sherlock was spending all of his time stuck in 221B, and it wasn't that his flat mate couldn't leave, he just seemed so disinterested in leaving. John could tell that this last month was eating away at Sherlock…it was probably slowly eating away at his mind. "We could go to Angelo's, you like Angelo's." He wanted Sherlock to say yes so badly, he wanted to other man to get some fresh air.

-.X.-

They arrive at Angelo's and the owner greeted them with a large smile, "thank you" spilling from his lips every other word. The smell coming from the entry way was making Sherlock's mouth water slightly. Angelo proceeded to sit them at the same table they had sat at last time they had come here. He remembered the view had been nice. Angelo asked once again if they would like a candle for their table, surprisingly John did not say anything against the implication. It made him think back to the first time the owner had asked that question…what had been said then. He realized he wasn't married to his work anymore, he and his job had had a messy divorce. Sherlock wondered if John knew they had broken up.

John handed him a piece of paper with a bunch of dots on it, they felt weird under his fingertips. "What is this, John?"

"Oh, it's braille, like the writing alphabet for the blind." John sounded a bit unsure when he said the word blind, he needed to make sure John knew he wasn't offended by the word.

"It's fine, you can say it, John. Thank you." He ran his fingers along the paper feeling all the small bumps under his sensitive skin.

John explained the paper to him scooting over closer to Sherlock's body. Sherlock already knew how to read braille, he had just forgotten what it was for. He hadn't bothered to delete it since it was everywhere, though most people didn't notice it, but he had also buried it down away in his mind palace since at the time it did not pertain to him. Angelo came out with their food, placing it down in front of them. The smell was mouth watering.

Dinner was delicious, as was expected. Angelo may have been a crook but he did run a lovely restaurant. Sherlock looked up from his plate, if you could even call it 'looking up', and pointed his head towards John. They hadn't really talked, about anything during the meal. Their relationship had always been a little secretive. It wasn't that they were purposely keeping things from the other, they just never really talked about things that weren't necessary to talk about.

It seemed stupid now, living with someone and never asking them about their life. Sure he knew a lot of things about John that the other man never had said to him, but he doubted John knew anything about him. And yet, the man trusted and believed in him one hundred percent. It was strange really, thinking of it now, he wanted John to know him, to be able to talk about things that weren't completely mundane. He wanted to talk about his likes and dislikes with John, and he wanted to know the other man's too.

They finished up dinner and paid for the food before walking out of the restaurant. Sherlock and John strode towards 221B in a comfortable silence. They were so close, barely inches apart, their jackets brushed each other as their hips swayed back and forth. John grabbed Sherlock's hand, panicking slightly when the other man put a foot out into the street at the cross walk. The light at the other side of the road had just switched over to '_Don't walk'_. John was completely thrown, what if he had not have been around and a car would have hit Sherlock. What if a reckless driver had killed the other man? John promised himself he would do something about this. He would figure out something if it was the last thing he did. He would make sure Sherlock was safe.

"Thank you, John, but I heard the beep." His voice was still no emotion in it, John thought, '_did he even realize he could have got run over?' _

Even though he was pissed that Sherlock didn't realize fully what could happen to him, his voice held only curiosity. "The beep?"

"Yes, John the beeping count down to let people know when it's okay to use the cross walk." Once again, there was no emotion in the taller man's voice. John didn't know how he managed to keep so calm and collected when he knew he himself was freaking out.

'_Oh, that beep.' _John felt a little daft. Of course, that beep. How had he forgotten that they had installed new cross walk lights right when he had moved into 221B that catered to the blind. '_Because at that time it didn't matter to me.' _He hated himself for not caring about others wellbeing until it pertained to him. He felt a bit sick with himself.

They walked home in silence. Most of their time together seemed to be filled with silence now that they weren't talking about crime and such.

-.X.-

Sherlock hadn't forgotten that his hand was still lightly in the hold of the other man, but it seemed like John had. It was nice, comfortable, warm. '_I like this_,' was all the raven-haired man thought as they finally arrived at the door of 221B. He knew he had to let go of John's hand soon, he gripped it tighter and then said "John, can I have my hand back?" He made his voice as flat as possible. John's face went all red, and once again John thought he was happy that Sherlock couldn't see it and once again he thought it horrible to think that. He let go of Sherlock's hand only to realize he had enjoyed it and now missed the warmth he had shared with the other.

They slumped up the stairs, at least John did, and went to bed with a small goodnight to the other.

-.X.-

Sherlock went to John that night, once the other man was asleep, he had no reason to…he just went. It was warm and comforting, he wanted it, wanted to lay here with John. He cuddled up to John as close as he possibly could, trying to melt himself into the other man.

He almost let himself give into the temptation he had put off since his teen years, the temptation to both touch and be touched. He wanted it, so bad, but most off all he wanted John. He wanted John for years to come and not just a heated few minutes before the other man realized what was going on. Sherlock was sure that if he took what he wanted at this moment he could never have it again after this. Hopefully, if he played his cards right, he could have John every second of everyday, anyway he wanted him for the rest of his life.

He stopped himself from thinking, letting his mind shut down for once, only focusing on the steady movement of John's chest.

-.X.-

John woke up that morning wrapped in warmth. His bed had never been this comfortable before and he never wanted to leave. He wanted to grow old in this warmth. He pushed himself farther into it but suddenly realized there was something poking him right below his butt. John's shock was quieted by the realization that Sherlock must be laying behind him, his once sleep filled mind fully awake.

Sherlock must have realized John was awake as soon as the other man's panic made his heart speed up. "Good morning, John." Sherlock yawned out, still half asleep. John did understand how he could be so calm.

"Sherlock, umm…You have a…uhhh…" He couldn't decide if he was more shocked with Sherlock or with himself. John had yet to jump out of bed or freak out in the least, at most he was embarrassed. '_Why am I embarrassed? It's not like it's my…penis, in his backside…_.'

"It's natural, John, just ignore it." He wasn't sure if it was the absoluteness in Sherlock's statement or if it was the warmth he was currently basking in, but John couldn't even say anything back. He closed his eyes, focusing only on the heat, which was nice. He had almost gone back to sleep, until Sherlock shifted a little making John completely aware of the other man's cock again. He squirmed slightly out of his own discomfort. He wished he wouldn't have when he heard the tiniest of moans from the other man. That tiny moan both excited and terrified John and he wasn't sure why he enjoyed the mixture of those two feelings so much.

Sherlock knew exactly what he was doing. He had realized last night after reading the poem he found on John's bedside table, that the other man might just feel the same way about him. He didn't think John had realized it yet, that they both had mutual feeling for each other, something other than friendship. John had written a poem that seemed it could only be for him, whether the other man knew it or not. '_Why else would he write it in braille?_ '

'_I want John to say something like that to me one day_,' was the only thing running through Sherlock's mind while getting out of the bed.

* * *

Review for internet cookies. They are gluten free:D


	10. Wing Dog

I was having a bad week and this turned into one big loooooong fluffy chapter, writing purely to make me feel a bit better. I hope you all enjoy!

* * *

After what had happened the after dinner yesterday, John was worried about Sherlock. He didn't like the idea of the other man going outside for a walk and getting hit by some idiot who isn't paying attention to the road. The idea of someone texting something like 'lol:)' while driving scared the living daylights out of John. He had never felt so scared for someone's life and it wasn't even his own. He blamed it on the fact he had seen the other man splayed on the ground covered with blood. John would still rather not think back on that.

Sherlock was sitting right across from him, drinking tea while listening to the news channel playing in the background. John loved the look Sherlock would get every time they would mention murder. The other man's eyes would light up, the smallest of smiles turning up his lips. John's little bit of happiness was ruined just seconds later every time. Sherlock's face would go blank and his eyebrows would knit together for a mere second or two. John hated the quick disappearance there.

John looked away and pulled his laptop into his lap, opening it up and typing in his password. "Sentiment," he muttered, John had had an idea pop into mind when Sherlock had been first flipping through the T.V. channels, _"what's that, Lassie? Timmy fell down a well?" _It hit him like a truck…that he hoped would never hit Sherlock. A guide dog. He typed it into the computer, clicking the first link in the search engine. What he had learned by the end was the type of dog to get and that they came trained. John didn't think Sherlock would like that, he thought the other man would rather train the dog himself if they got one…and they would get one. He scribbled down the number of the closest breeder. He would have gotten a rescue but he just thought it would be better to make sure to get a young puppy that would make a good guide dog.

"Sherlock, I need to go out and get some stuff. I will be back later on this afternoon probably." John strode to the door pulling his jacket off of the hook before pulling it over his arms.

"Okay, John, call me if anything happens or if your schedule changes." Sherlock detested that John wasn't telling him where he was going. It wasn't as if John was keeping it from him but he wasn't being open with him either. Sherlock hated this, at least he used to be able to snoop, it's not like he could go over to John's laptop and check his browser history. '_I need to hire a new live in to solely to tell me what John is doing. He could sleep on the couch.'_

John went downstairs searching for Mrs. Hudson, he found her sitting in the living room reading the newspaper. He stood in front of her, shifting nervously from one foot to the other. _'What if she says no? What am I going to do? _He finally cleared his throat. "Mrs. Hudson, can I ask you a question?"

She set down her paper, looking up at him with bright eyes. "Of course, deary."

"Can we get a dog?" He had joined her on the couch at this point. He could only take so much of his own nervous fidgeting and he didn't want Mrs. Hudson to become annoyed with him. "The other night when we went out, Sherlock and I, he stepped into the street and could have gotten hit by a car. I don't want him to leave again."

The understanding on her face let him already know the answer to his question. "Oh, what a wonderful idea, John!" The older women had the most adorable way about her. John thanked her and walked out of 221B, promptly pulling out his mobile and dialing the number he had jotted down earlier. He held it up to his ear listening to the ring through the device.

"'Ello?" The women on the other end had a thick Scottish accent that was almost too thick to hear through.

"Hello, my name is John Watson. I was wondering if you currently had any German Shepherd, and Golden Retriever mixed puppies at the moment?" He pulled the phone closer to his ear to make sure he could understand what the young women on the other side of this conversation was about to say.

"Ay, the wee babes are just auld 'nough tae go tae homes." John could barely understand what she was saying but he knew she had said yes to his initial question.

"Can I come over today and take a look at them?" '_I need to call Mycroft and ask him for some money._' When he had been looking at the prices online, John had been shocked, '_two thousand pounds for puppies, ridiculous. I could buy an arm and a leg for that price.' _He just didn't have that kind of money. John had forgotten he was on the phone with someone else but as soon as she said 'goodbye, see you soon' or something like that he shook himself back to the present. "I'll see you soon, goodbye."

John ended the call just to dial Mycroft's number, it only rang once before the other man answered, _'it's as if his phone is permanently attached to his hand.' _

"I wired three thousand into your account." Mycroft was steady and all knowing and John didn't particularly like it. '_What a prat.' _John thought, the words Mycroft said not reaching his brain yet.

"Hello to you too," John said dryly and then the words hit him. "Wait, what did you just say?" He was thinking so hard about what was just said there might be smoke coming out of his ears. He wouldn't doubt that at all.

"Sorry, right. Good morning John, I put money in your bank account to pay for the guide dog."

John's jaw dropped. He shut it with an audible snap. "How? You know what, no. No I don't want to know. Don't tell me. Thank you and have a good day Mycroft."

Right before John could hang up Mycroft's next question stopped him. "John, how is he doing?" That sadness was back in Mycroft's voice, that auditable guilt. He could hardly bare it.

"He's doing fine, considering." John was about to say goodbye but then he thought of something else to say to the other man. "Mycroft, would you like to come over for Christmas dinner?" There was a long pause on the other end of the line, he wondered if Mycroft had hung up on him.

"I would enjoy that, John." The tension his voice caused was sickeningly sad. John had to figure out something to cut through it just so he could say goodbye.

"There will be cake, just so you know." John had to push the other man's buttons a little.

Mycroft replied back dryly, "I'm on a diet," and then he hung up on John.

-.X.-

The house he finally arrived at was nice and comfy with a large yard. John could hear the puppies barking from the time he started walking up the path. They had a beautiful garden, ivy was growing off the side of the house, flowers blooming but they were on the brink of death. He knocked on the door and heard at least a dozen little feet run towards the door, but then a louder "AYE! Get back tae ye room." It sounded as if all the feet ran farther into the house. The door opened up to beautiful young lady with red hair standing there.

"Hello, I called earlier, name's John Watson." He stuck her hand out towards the lady, she opened up the door grabbing his hand and then pulling him inside.

"Aye, been expecting ye, name's Amy." She turned and yelled up the stairs at some unseen person. "Rory get ye butt down here! We 'ave a guest!" She turned back towards John, leading him into the living room. "Ye want some tea?"

"Yeah, yeah sure." It took him awhile to acclimate to Amy's high-energy personality. A tall lanky man appeared in front of him, which shocked him beyond what it should have. "Oh, hello." He held out his hand again to find it in a vice like grip.

"Name's Rory," the man said a little tightly. John flinched a little in the man's iron like grip and Amy took immediate notice of that.

"Rory, let 'im go, this ain't no manly contest." His hand was automatically let go and John was having such a hard time keeping up with what was going on. "Here's ye tea darling." A steaming hot mug was thrust into his hand.

"Thank you," was all he could think to say, he wasn't sure where to take the conversation next.

"So, you're here to get a puppy?" This time it was what John could only assume was Amy's husband talking. He didn't understand the guarded stare he was getting, he looked over to the other man's wife who was just looking about. He looked back over at Rory and giving him a questioning glance. "So, who's the puppy for?"

"Ah, it's a gift for my flat mate, he's blind." Rory's face automatically became warm instead of the cold and calculating one that was once there. "I thought it would be safer for him to have some sort of guide dog."

"Awe, how sweet of ye!" The women's eyes went all big and doey. There was something insinuative in those eyes but he was quite sure what they were insinuating. "Pups!" She hollered at the top of her lungs and once again a hoard of little feet came running. He looked over to the doorway, just before any of the fluffy young puppies could pass over the threshold. He heard another command leave the young ladies lips, "Hold!" Her command was that of someone who had seen war. "Ye should sit on the floor," he did as she commanded, sitting crisscross on the wooden floor. He wasn't sure why he had followed her 'suggestion', his body had moved before he knew it was doing it. Her tone vaguely reminded John of the army and it was an unconscious gesture to comply. "Come," once again, another command.

He didn't think of it much, once puppies surrounded him. They all stood a bit away from him none of them really daring to come close. That was until one brave young ball of golden fur with a black mussel, it crawled into his lap rolling over, wiggling around, belly exposed. Soon, all the other puppies came around his body sniffing him lightly but he only had eyes for the one he was currently giving a belly rub. "This one, I want to purchase this one." He looked up at the married couple, whom were both staring at him.

"Ye sure now?"

"Yes."

He had gone to the bank earlier to withdraw enough money to pay for the dog, he handed the money over and they talked for a bit longer, the couple telling him she already had her shots and such. John thanked them both many times before finally saying goodbye. He put her, as he was informed, into a small box that he buckled into the front seat. He hopped around to the other side slamming his door before and started driving to the nearest pet store.

As soon as they got out of the small neighborhood, and he started to move faster the young dog started to whimper. "What's wrong sweetie?" The whimpers continued and didn't show signs of ceasing. John did the only thing he could think of to ease the puppy's anxiety. He pulled her into his lap, trying to comfort her some. Her whole body was shaking but it seemed to lessen some once she was close to his body. He kept one hand on her even though he knew it was dangerous to drive like that. Thinking it best, he switched hands. The one resting on the fluff ball went onto the steering wheel and the one on the steering wheel cradled the whimpering puppy. He had decided to just keep calling her 'She' until he got home. John wanted Sherlock to name her because he thought the other man would think of something cleverer. She buried herself under his jumper, pressing her wet nose to his belly.

-.X.-

'_What does one even get for a dog?_ _Well obviously a leash and collar._' John walked up the aisle standing in front of the racks of collars, puppy in hand. '_What kind of dog would want to wear a rhinestone collar?' _"Don't worry, I would never make you wear something like that," he told her, pointed out the insane reached for a puppy sized collar, '_should I get a large one while I'm here too. Puppies usually do grow into dogs.' _He decided it was a good idea to get a large one as well. _'Purple's a nice color, I like purple.'_ "Do you like purple? Your other daddy likes purple," she just looked up at him knowing she was being talked to but not knowing what was being said. John thought she looked happy enough about his pulled a matching harness off the shelf, thinking that that would give Sherlock more control than a leash, putting all of it in the small basket by his feet. He switched her from in on arm to the other.

"Next," he mumbled to himself, '_next…Ah! Bowls,' _he strode over to the food and water bowls picking out plain silver ones and putting them into his basket. '_A bed, most definitely a bed.' _Once again, his eye's automatically went to the purple bed, he then picked it up and headed over to the check-out counter before realizing he had forgotten puppy chow. "You are going to need food," he said to her lovingly. Her tail was wagging and her tongue sticking out. John thought she was too cute. _'God, why are there so many brands? Nope not that one, elders, small dogs, adult dogs, medium sized dogs, diet for dogs…Mycroft dog food.' _"Don't worry puppy we will take you out running all the time, no need to be on a diet like Mycroft." Why he was talking to her he couldn't say but it was nice, her warmth and her companionship. He had always wanted to be a father. John always wanted someone to depend on him.

_'Puppy. Now why are there still so many kinds?' _John looked at all the different types, one said it promoted healthy eyes, teeth, fur, and bone growth, and there was another one that said it was for sensitive stomachs. _'This one says it helps extend life length…better get this one. Better yet, I should get them all and then mix them together.' _John picked up the three different types of puppy food, placing them in the over flowing basket taking them to the check-out, puppy still pressed up against his chest. The lady at the check-out was nice; she helped him put the young dog's collar on, but not the leash because he insisted on carrying her. John took the bags and put them in the boot of the car, getting in the front and setting her down in his lap.

-.X.-

"Thank you Mrs. Hudson for letting me borrow the car. Look here!" He held the puppy up under her arms, thrusting her in front of Mrs. Hudson's face.

"Look at the dear, absolutely adorable!" Her eyes lit up and her hands reached out to pet her, the small dog enjoying it greatly. It took about five minutes to convince her that he needed to go upstairs to show Sherlock. When she finally stopped fawning, John picked up the bags and headed up the stairs opening up the flat door.

"I'm home!" Sherlock was sitting on the couch instead of the chair for once. He already knew that Sherlock knew something was up, his face gave it away the little crease between his eyes.

Sherlock hated succumbing to his need to know, "So, what do you have there, John?" Whatever the other man had it smelled and was moving about. John put down something on the floor, it sounded about twelve pounds judging by the sound of the thump it made as it hit the wood. John called him over to the couch, saying he had a surprise. He started to walk over to his destination but then he heard a small bark. "A dog, John?"

"Well, yeah. I thought it would be good. You know, a guide dog." John sounded a bit nervous. Sherlock planted himself next to the other man not quite sure what to say about the whole situation. He supposed it was nice of John but he didn't know if he wanted a dog. John grabbed his hand and placed it on top of the animal's head. It was soft, warm. "I haven't named her yet…I thought you might want too."

Sherlock grabs her under her legs, holding up the dog up to his face, as if staring at her. She licked at his hands, _'I have to wash that later.'_ "What kind is she?" He had a pretty good idea of what she looked like but knowing the breed would help him out a little with the mental picture of the puppy.

"Oh, she's a Golden Shepherd." John started to pet her as well, scooting closer to get better leverage. John's thigh was touching his own.

"Theia," he chuckled slightly to himself thinking it rather witty. Sherlock placed her down in their lap, allowing both of them to pet her. Theia lay in the crease between their thighs that were touching. Sherlock rested his arm on the back of the couch behind John's head but he doubted John realized the other man was too consumed with their new flat mate. To be fair, he became consumed in the moment as well.

John slid to the floor after a while taking Theia with him, resting his head slightly on Sherlock's knee, moving over slightly as time went by ending up between the space in between Sherlock's legs. The puppy crawled back into John's lap after the little paws had pranced about the living room. Sherlock hated using the puppy like this, but not really. He scooted forward on the couch, his pelvis almost on the back of John's head. He then reached down hands brushing John's legs on his way to pet the puppy. Sherlock liked her more now, he hadn't expected this kind of closeness today. _'What's the phrase…wing dog?' _

His body was hunched over John's sitting playing with the puppy, and John rested his cheek on Sherlock's thigh after a while.

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Amy and Rory! Greatest love story ever:3 Could you tell yet I really want SuperWhoLock?

Anyways Review, Favorite, and Follow! It makes me want to give you all giant hugs.


	11. Sentiment

Sorry I got really anxious about putting this up so the last section is unbeta'd. I hope you like it!

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John woke up to a small wet tongue licking the tip of his nose and a warm body pressed up against his own. This was the second time Sherlock had stayed all night, not leaving in the early hours of the morning. He pulled Theia in closer to his body and in return she curled up under his chin. To his surprise Sherlock nuzzled his nose in the space between John's ear and neck. He gasped slightly in surprise, it was weird that the other man was pressed so close to his body. John liked it, this warm and if that made him…not _completely_ straight and for once, he was fine with that. He hadn't thought of it until now, well, not really, being…gay. He was okay with it, at least he was fine with saying it in his own mind, and the only reason it was 'okay' was because it was Sherlock that he was...not completely straight with. He couldn't see himself sending the rest of his life with any other man, or woman, if he was being honest. Every time he had ever tried to being with a woman he had left her disappointed, and that was something he was not okay with. John knew that all the women he had been with so far had deserved better than him, all of them, even Jane his first girlfriend. He wished he had remembered her birthday even up to today.

"Good morning, John." His warm breath ghosting over John's neck, making him shiver slightly. Sherlock ran his hands under John's arms, up the other man's chest making his way to the puppy, petting her gently.

John felt a small tingle in his lower stomach at the other man's touch. The feeling was strange but not unwelcome. He was a little unsure with the touches and he was sure he wasn't ready to touch Sherlock in the same way. John was used to the soft gentle curves of a woman and not the hard, sharp angles of Sherlock. He knew the other man was what most would consider handsome and he did agree with that but he wasn't ready to be intimate. Well, not anymore so than what they were doing at this moment.

John closed his eyes, completely forgetting the other man had said something to him. He had almost fallen back into a comfortable sleep when Theia became restless, yipping at both of them.

"Seems like she might need to go to the restroom." Sherlock didn't say anything about the pee he had cleaned up on his way to John's room last night. She had been shivering outside of the door to John's room, apparently refusing to sleep in her bed. He cleaned it up without complaint, not really blaming the young dog since they hadn't taken her out right before bed. After throwing away the dirty towel, he picked her up and brought her into the bed with him, placing her on John's side. He pointed at her and whispered, "Just this once," before lying down and getting comfortable.

Sherlock pulled away from John, getting out from the bed. On the way out, he brushed his lips against the other man's neck also taking advantage of the situation and tracing the curve of John's hip with his fingertips. "John, let's go for a walk and get some breakfast." He walked out of the room going to his own to get dressed.

John's skin burned where the other man's lips had been and he could still feel Sherlock's hand on his hip. He got out of bed, Theia immediately started rolling around on it. John got dressed, being extremely careful to not touch the burning places on his body. Once dressed, he picked Theia up and walked out of his room and into the living area, where Sherlock was waiting by the door with a harness. Sherlock put it on Theia while John held her up. Once the harness was on, they walked down stairs, saying 'Good morning' to Mrs. Hudson on the way out. Theia ran straight out the door as soon as it was open and John jogged along not wanting to ruin her fun. He looked over his shoulder smiling in the direction that Sherlock should be, but he realized the other man wasn't there. Sherlock was still standing on the stoop of 221B looking in the direction that John had jogged off in. The frown that marred Sherlock's face hurt John, _'how could I have been so inconsiderate?' _ He hated himself ever so slightly at the moment, he pulled at the harness turning the puppy around walking back to the door, and he grabbed Sherlock's hand from his side and placed the leash in it. Sherlock closed his fist around the lead, John knew he need to say something.

"I'm sorry," what else could he say? That he was stupid, an idiot, an insensitive moron? At this point it was more of all of the above.

"John, it's fine." John knew it wasn't fine and knew he had hurt the other man. He would be more conscious of the other man's feelings from this point on.

They walked to the closest park, John making sure to stand close to Sherlock, letting their clothed arms brush past each other with every step. They started strolling along the pathway Theia bouncing about with them. She pulled them over to a tree, squatting down to use the restroom. John turned his head, giving her a bit of privacy.

"Next time you go to the store you should get her some toys." John knew he had forgotten something when he was at the store yesterday, _'toys and a dog tag.' _ Theia started to pull at the lead again, indicating she was ready to go. The walked through the park and then headed back to Backer Street to grab breakfast at Speedy's.

They sat outside at a table, tying Theia to the leg of the table, and waiting for a waiter to come out and give them menus.

"We need to take her out at least three times a day," Sherlock said as the waiter came out giving them menus and asking is they wanted a small bowl of water for the puppy currently rubbing up against Sherlock's leg. They were grateful for the thought.

John was excited that Sherlock had said "we" implying that he would also be coming along. He was glad to being able to get Sherlock out of their stuffy flat more often. John knew that fresh air was good for the other man. He was a doctor after all. Now that John was thinking about it, he was worried about Sherlock's health. He seemed paler and lankier than when they had first meet. Even though John was around for every meal they ate, he had begun to realize that the other man would just push his food around, just barley picking at it. _'If only I could convince him to eat more.' _John thought to himself while looking down at his menu, Sherlock's was still laying in front of him.

"John, can you order for us?" John wasn't used to Sherlock asking him for help with things. It was nice to be relied on.

"Of course, Sherlock." As if on cue, the waiter came back to their table with two cups of coffee and water in a small paper bowl that he sat down on the ground. Theia jumped right over to it lapping at the cold water as if it were the last drops in the world. The waiter stood back up and asked them if they were ready to which John replied with a curt yes.

"Can we have two fry-ups and a large bowl of mixed fruit?" John handed him his menu and the waiter grabbed Sherlock's from in front of him where he was sitting with his arms slightly crossed.

"Do you want the traditional or the healthy?" _'Greasy and delicious or better for your health and a little less delicious.' _ John weighted his options.

"Healthy." The man left them to their coffee, saying their order would be out soon.

-.X.-

"John, you did not make tea this morning." Sherlock stated hoping to get the other man to understand his hint. He had become accustomed to his morning routine, he liked it, and it made Sherlock feel a sense of normality. Not that their life was anything but normal now-a-days. Sherlock would hate to admit it out loud but routine had always made him feel safe. "Could you make me some?"

John got up from the couch where he had been posted watching telly, something about 'not being bovvered'. Whatever it was, it seemed to make the other man chuckle…which Sherlock _loved_ to hear. He loved the way it made his heart flutter and his breath quicken. Though he did hate the sentiment of it all, being so attached to just the frequency of the John's voice. He was sure it was not just that see as how he could find hundreds of people with the same voice, but Sherlock didn't think any of them would do.

Sherlock listened as John walked about the kitchen in smooth moments, not bumping anything as he worked. The clang of cups and the kettle moving around sounded through the apartment. John hummed a piece of music that he did not recognize, though it was pleasing.

John finally finished, walking back into the sitting area where he now stood in front of Sherlock, cup held out. Sherlock grasped both cups from John, the other man protesting, albeit weakly, "Sherlock what are you doing?"

He then reached up and grabbed the front of John's warm woolen jumper with both hands, pulling the other man closer to him. He whispered, "Sentiment, John," before giving the other man the cheekiest smirk he could muster, finally pulling their lips together for the smallest brush of lips. It made both pairs of lips tingle, wanting more but not wanting to push it they pulled apart out of the other's space. John stood up straight, quite dumbfounded with what had just happened. He had liked it sure, but it was his first kiss ever with a man. John wasn't quiet sure what his body was doing.

He's lips tingled, his face was hot and he could feel the redness both resting on his cheeks and ears. Finally giving himself over to his new relationship, even if he didn't know what to call it, John smiled and leaned back down giving Sherlock another shy peck. The heat of John's face warming the other man's as well. John grabbed his cup from the side table and sat back down in his chair, a sly smirk on his face as he crossed his legs.

They didn't talk, simply sitting across from each other sipping their tea with twin smiles on their faces. Sherlock felt like a little kid who had finally got the candy he had been begging his mother for. John's lips had been exactly what he thought they would be like, they were slightly chapped but soft nonetheless. _'I should get John to buy some chap stick' _he thought to himself wonder how soft the other man's lips would be then. Truthfully he didn't care, he would take John's lips anyway he could get them.

They spent the rest of the day filled with mindless chatter between meals and walking the young dog. After a few hours of lying in his own bed, Sherlock got up and walked down the hallway towards John's room. Theia ran to his feet, he picked her up and held her to his chest. "Just this once," was all Sherlock said as he got into John's bed, placing her next to John's chest while curling into the other man.

_ 'Sentiment.'_


	12. The Wants of Sherlock Holmes

I am sorry this took so long. I did not stop writing this but something that happened in my personal life has left me not feeling like writing anything lovely dovey.  
BUT after the season final of supernatural I really needed something not so depressing to cheer me up.

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They held their routine day after day for weeks. They would share breakfast, occasionally with Mrs. Hudson, then would go out for a walk in the park, sometimes going to the local shops just to look around. After that, they would either eat lunch at home or at a café where they could have Theia tied to a table. After lunch, they would drink a cuppa in the living room and before John gave Sherlock his tea they would share a small peck. It was all very nice, their time together. They had begun to finally break down the walls that separated them.

This was their quiet time now. John was currently sitting on the couch watching whatever happened to be on…he wasn't really paying attention. He was too focused on watching Sherlock out of the corner of his eye. The only thing keeping him from full on staring was his own worry that the other man might suddenly regain his eyesight and catch him gawking. Sherlock suddenly turned to face John, who was suddenly scared about the other possibly knowing about his wandering eyes. Luckily the other man had only gotten up to go to the restroom. Sherlock had slouched down the hallway, John's eyes trailing him the whole way. He wasn't sure why but lately he just couldn't keep his eyes off of the other man's figure. John wasn't sure if he was becoming obsessed with the way the tall body moved…he had never realized how elegant and precise the motions were.

He was lost in the memory of Sherlock's body until the other man was before him again. John was wondering what Sherlock was doing standing in front of him but he couldn't take his eyes off the masterpiece of long limbs, and sharp angles. John gripped the armrest to his right, wait for Sherlock to do something, though he wasn't sure what. Sherlock planted himself halfway in between the other end of the couch and John. Which John thought was odd, since it was a weird position. But, then it got stranger. The taller man turn his back to John's side and then slowly started to lay back. It caught him completely off guard when black curls hit his lap.

Two sets of blue eyes meet, staring into each other, and then it all clicked into place for John. Really, finally, he felt like he was seeing the other for the first time as his hands drifted to run through Sherlock's soft curls. Now, looking down at Sherlock, feeling him both under him and on him, it had changed something within John. He had known he liked the other man but now he realized he loved him. That he whole-heartedly loved Sherlock. At first it had been the quirky genius and then later, the way he silently cared in the oddest of fashions. But now he loved it all, even down to the condescending tone he would use sometimes when explaining things to John.

Sherlock's hair was so soft under John's calloused hands. He tugged on the curls with one hand under his head, pulling Sherlock's lips up to meet his own. The kiss was quick, not lasting long, holding only enough time for passion. Once it was over, he just held the other man's head up, to spend time studying Sherlock's face.

John stared while Sherlock looked up blindly, only able to use his memory of the other. Sherlock imagined John staring down at him, cheeks reddened from embarrassment but a cheeky grin on his face. He wanted to feel John under his hands. Sherlock wanted to run his fingertips over every inch of skin, feeling every slight curve that made up John's structure. Slowly reaching up to touch the years gone by etched into John's face. Every wrinkle, every imperfection…they were all beautiful in his mind's eye. He mapped out every inch now under his fingers, feeling the heat rising under them. Finally he made his way down to John's mouth, running his thumb over a soft bottom lip.

Softly kissed the thumb now on his lips, John tried to show he was okay with Sherlock's way of seeing. He grabbed the hand, having removed the one that was entwined with black curls, and kissed the boney knuckles. John finally let Sherlock's head rest back on his thighs, keeping one hand in the man's hair and the other grasping his hand.

John let his mind sit halfway between watching the news and watching the man in his lap's chest move up and down. His fingers keep themselves busy running through soft hair and slightly caressing the hand in his.

Sherlock moved his pinky, pushing it to lie between John's first two fingers. He felt safe lying here, he wasn't worried about being caught off guard or judged in anyway. If Sherlock wanted he could reach up right now and "see" how John felt about anything. He did not have to worry about being pitied or being the object of misplaced sympathy. John wanted to be with him and didn't see his new state of being as a problem. John also didn't mind going out of his way to make sure Sherlock was more comfortable and safe, even if he didn't need to but he knew John did it of love not pity.

"John, I want to tell you, I miss seeing. I miss solving crime and the look on your face when you're impressed by my deductions. I even miss when you scold me for being insensitive." Sherlock wanted to open up to John, to let him in. There had been a time when he thought he needed no one; he had hid himself away, coming out only to solve crime. He knew now that he needed people, mainly John, but it wasn't a horrible idea to let others in.

The hand in his hair moved down to touch a pale cheek, John's words coming out in a hushed tone. "Sherlock…I _will _find a way to let you show the world your brilliance once more. I promise, if it's the last thing I do, the world will once again praise Sherlock Holmes, the one and only consulting detective."

"John, you and I both know that's now impossible. My name is now that of a criminal, even if I could see, no one in their right mind would trust me."

"I promise." John's tone was final; it was clear there would be no more arguing on the matter. Sherlock knew that John could not keep this promise but he appreciated the gesture anyways.

John reach down into his pocket, pulling out his phone and quickly tapping out a message to Mycroft.

_We need to talk. I will call you later. –JW_

Sherlock wanted to inquire but at the same time him didn't want to intrude. John obviously sensed his curiosity, "Mycroft."

Sherlock responded with a soft grunt, not really knowing how he felt about his brother and John talking but he figured it could be worse.

-.X.-

"So what did you need to talk about, John?" He was currently walking through the park with Theia, Sherlock having elected to stay home to chat with Mrs. Hudson while she cooked supper.

He took a deep breath, as he got ready to talk to Mycroft about his plans. He had been thinking over if for a while now but after today's events he knew something had to be done. "I want you to admit to the world your mistake." He knew he was asking a lot.

This was a sharp intake of air on the other end of the phone, "John, I don't think you understand what you are asking of me."

"I do know what I'm asking of you and I understand how it might effect you. But…I just want to see him doing what he loves, most of all I want to see him smile again. You must understand how I feel." He hated using the guilt card, but John thought it would be okay just this once.

There was a few minutes of silence between them, John giving Mycroft the time he need to think about it and make up his mind. Finally, Mycroft answered, "Tell me about your plan, John."

-.X.-

John read over the title one more time to make sure it was exactly what he wanted "Reichenbach's Last Bow." Satisfied with the title, since he always found them the hardest, John typed out the last line "Signed, Sir Arthur Doyle." He knew if he was to use his own name people would disregard everything else because knew John was connected with the Holmes. Mycroft having giving him full permission to write the full story of what transpired between him, Sherlock, and Jim Moriarty. Allowing the world to finally know the truth behind the whole Richard Brook debacle.

Mycroft had promised John that he would get the story released into every United Kingdom's newspaper he could. He was basically the queen after all.

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I hoped you liked this:D If you like it please remember to review. And next chapter is the start of intimacy! Get excited.


	13. Unwanted Intimacy

So...New chapter! (I know that came really fast)  
Now let me ask you all a question: would y'all be okay if I added another chapter?

It would make the story a little longer (depending on how many words it takes me to write it) and it would have Sherlock groping certain things.

So if any of you would like to speak up and say YEAH or nay, that would be awesome. The sooner it's answer the soon I write the next chapter.

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The warmth that awoke John was contagious, warming him to his core. Being halfway in between consciousness and the realm of dreams, John snuggled his body closer to the source, wanting nothing more than to be consumed by it. Hot breath tickled his neck forcing him to become aware of his surroundings; the heat was coming from a body pressed right up against his own.

He tensed a little, having forgot who was behind him. Warm hands pulled John in further, leaving no room between them, long fingers gently brushing themselves across his clothed torso. John's mind went back to the breath on his neck, when soft lips almost touching the skin there. Opening his eyes, John noticed it was still early morning, much too soon to get out of his warm cocoon. So he let his eyelids flutter close, content on going back to sleep.

But burning lips suddenly pressed against his sensitive skin. It was a pleasantly strange feeling, and even though he liked it John knew he wasn't ready for the intimacy it entailed. Despite this, John couldn't just tell Sherlock to stop, he enjoyed this warm and their current closeness too much, and it was not as if Sherlock was going too far. The kiss continued, pressing to his shoulder, his collar, and neck making there way slowly to John's ear. Sherlock nestled his nose in the small space, pressing gentle lips to the tender area on his jawbone, which in turn made John whimper ever so slightly. John wasn't sure why the sound forced it's way out of his mouth but it embarrassed him deeply. John could feel the sudden rush of blood to both his cheeks and ears. He also knew by the little chuckle Sherlock gave, that the other man had noticed it as well.

Sherlock continued to leave haunting kisses, barely whispers, on the tan flesh while long fingers ran over John's chest, brushing slightly over a covered nipple. John whimpered again, curling into himself causing his ass to rub fully into Sherlock, the other man giving a gasp in return.

It was all too much for John, he liked this but he wasn't ready for it. Having only ever been with women, this was far out of his territory. John's body froze; he didn't think he could handle Sherlock touching him for one more second. It was all suddenly so much. He didn't want to be here…enjoying this.

Luckily for him, Theia picked that exact moment to jump up on the bed, pushing her way between them, licking whatever skin she could reach. They had been leaving the doors in the flat open so she could come and go as she pleased. Sherlock let out a disappointed grunt and John took this opportunity to turn his body and move away from the other man. Theia was in between them happily yipping and nuzzling them both, jumping around all the while fumbling over her own feet. She still had a long way to go before she would grow into her ears and paws, but currently they seem to make up most of her.

John felt the need to explain to the now slightly irate man that he wasn't ready for anything. That he wasn't ready to get sexual with him. "Sherlock, I need you to not…touch me. Well, not that way." The words didn't come out how he wanted them to, they came out harsher sounder than what he wanted.

The confusion and hurt was clear on Sherlock's face, well, at least clear to John. "I don't mean…just, I'm not ready. Light pecks and snuggling are one thing…but anything more than that is too much for me right now. Just can you understand and give me time?"

"I'm sorry John, of course." Sherlock reached out a hand running it over John's cheek.

"Don't be sorry, you did nothing wrong. I just need time."

"Take as long as you need, I can wait. Now, I think someone needs a bath." Though his face still held a look of mild disappointment as Sherlock moved to get out of bed pulling the puppy along with him. This would be the first time in the month that they had had Theia that the puppy would be given a bath. John was anxious to see how the young dog would react, so he jumped out of bed following Sherlock to the restroom.

Sherlock was sitting on the toilet lid, rolling up the cuff of his sleep pants, Theia prancing about around him. John did the same while sitting on the edge of the tub, feet wiggling on the cold metal. He turned on the water, letting it fill and warm the tub, after about two inches of water Sherlock joined him on the edge with puppy in hand.

"We don't have any dog shampoo." Concern laced itself through John's voice, he had come to really love Theia and he would hate to see her sick or in pain. He felt the same way for Sherlock.

"I'm sure we can use normal shampoo just this once, we just have to be extra carful to not get on her face." Sherlock decided as he placed her down in the tub. Theia seemed to enjoy herself lapping at the water and pouncing on it, effectively getting them all wet.

Bath time ending with them all being pretty soaked and sudsy. Sherlock unplugged the tub, letting the water run down the drain before pulling the wet puppy up to his chest and reaching across John to grab a towel. He rubbed her down making a game out of it, Theia yipping in excitement and nibbling at whatever got to close to her mouth. Once she was of a reasonable dampness Sherlock put her down, tossing the towel in the bin then pulling the shirt that was clinging to body off. John watched as the pale, unmarked, skin made its way out of the restroom and down the hall.

The tightness in John's gut was not unwelcome, he would have to work it out later.

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	14. Oh Christmas Tree

So this is the extra chapter everyone (who commented) said they wanted. I am so happy you guys like my story so much and wanted this extra chapter, it's pretty long (almost three thousand words) and was a lot of fun to write.  
This chapter ending up a lot different then I thought it would just so you know. Oh, well.

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"Boys, could do me a favor?" Sherlock and John were currently sitting with Mrs. Hudson at her dinning table, she had cooked them breakfast but by the time they woke up it might as well have been brunch.

"Of course, dear." Sherlock had taken up Mrs. Hudson's habit of calling the other 'dear.' John found it rather endearing. Sherlock was bringing a bite up to his mouth but he miscalculated slightly hitting his teeth, with a clang, instead of a soft tongue. Sherlock scolded the fork, John chuckled in response.

"Well, since Christmas is coming I was wondering if you two would be up for going and getting a Christmas tree. Also maybe some garland, and mistletoe." John had completely forgotten it was so close to the December holiday, being only three weeks away. All his free time had been used cuddling with his flat mates or working on Sherlock's book. Once again he thought about his sexuality and how what he had just thought about had spoke volumes about his new sexual orientation. Maybe he had always been gay, now that he was thinking about it. His lack of interested for women, unless he was getting off, had always bothered him. John wanted nothing more than to fall madly in love but it seemed it would never happen with a women. The closest thing he had ever felt to love, as descried by subpar writers and sappy movies, was when Sherlock had asked him to pass the gravy on thanksgiving. It might seem like the littlest thing, completely unimportant, but since Sherlock's return he had not asked John for anything. Not even once. Sure, John would do things without the other man having to ask, but the gravy had only been a few inches to the man's left. The gravy boat had been farther away from John than it had been from Sherlock. Such a small thing had made him so elated.

"Sure, Mrs. Hudson. We will go today." Sherlock went back to munching on his sausage, not asking John if he had anything planed for the day, not that he did, just assuming that John would go along with him, which he would.

After breakfast they grabbed their coats, leaving Theia with Mrs. Hudson for some female bonding time, and hailed a taxi. Quickly asking the older man if he would mind driving them to the nearest tree farm as well as if the man could bring the tree back, the driver had said 'sure' with a warm smile on his face. He was extremely nice, and the ride was pleasant as he talked about his grandkids, kids and wife. John learned his name was Dr. Smith, he had moved from Italy, where he had been a small town doctor, in order to raise his family. He had been a cabbie ever since. John paid him in advance as soon as they got to their destination, giving the man more money than necessary for his kindness and time.

John and Sherlock stepped out or the car, snow crunching under their feet, the smell of pines assaulting them. John looked over just in time to see Sherlock nose scrunched up, no in disgust but from the strength. He found it rather cute the way the pointed nose wrinkled.

They walked through the shop, which smelled of cinnamon, the scent of pine almost completely covered up. It was rather disgusting, John had liked the natural scent, and this smelt wrong and plastic-y. He ignored it, walking out the door giving a small smile to the plump lady behind the register.

John walks up to the first nice looking tree he sees, "I think this one will do."

"Wrong." Sherlock tone was slightly teasing.

John just looked at Sherlock, with brows creased wonder what the man could be possibly talking about. "What?" He knew the confusion was plan as day in his voice, having been working hard to express more through tone, stress, and cadence, hoping to allow Sherlock to 'see' his emotions better.

"John, it doesn't smell right." That cocky smirk was still in place.

"What could you possibly mean?" He loved to see that look back on Sherlock's face, that stupid look that said 'I know something you don't.' John's belly wiggled at the sight.

"It smells like colored spray and preservatives. The tree is old." Sherlock reached out touching the needles, which in effect fell off at the touch. "See, old."

"Oh, you pick the tree and I will cut it down." John was slightly embarrassed by his pick of tree and didn't want to make that mistake again.

They continued to walk through the farm, heading farther and farther back. Sherlock sniffing and feeling every tree he came across, none of them seemed to please him though, there was always something 'wrong.'

But the man came to complete stop in front of a modest sized tree; it seemed to be full of life. Sherlock leaned in to take a whiff, nodding in a pleased way, and then gently pulling on the dark green needles, which in return didn't fall off. John wasn't surprised when the other man started to grope the pine in front of him, testing for fullness. It was funny, the way the man wrapping his ands around the tree repeatedly, running his hands down the branches. Sherlock was ever so gentle with the plant; John couldn't help but compare it to how Sherlock might treat a lover. It made shivers run down his spine, '_would Sherlock touch my body would the same tenderness? Or would he take me in the heat of passion?' _The flush on his face had never before been so bright. He hadn't approved of the thought, it straight past his 'I'm not really that gay' filter.

"John, this is the tree." The man was beaming to himself, though it was only held in his eyes.

"You're brilliant." John had said it without thought; he just blurted out what had come to his mind in that moment.

"I know." The smirk on Sherlock's face almost broke apart the stretched skin, but there was something in his eyes akin to pride.

"Cheeky bastard."

"Thank you, John." The blond man wasn't sure what the other was thanking him for but he was pretty sure it had something to do with self worth. John was glad he could make Sherlock feel better, no matter how little the deed.

John just smiled and got to work on chopping the tree. Sweat soaked him, and he relished the feeling of being active again. He had missed the way he had worked while in the army. As the tree started to fall Sherlock grabbed it, and John gave it one last good swing before the tree finally separated. Sherlock held onto the top while John bent down to clutch the bottom, they started their hike back to the shop. They paid for tree as well as the other things their land lady had asked for then strapped the tree to the top of the cab, even thought it wasn't exactly safe, and riding back to 221B Baker Street.

John waved goodbye to Dr. Smith and lugged the Christmas tree into the apartment, Mrs. Hudson instructed them to set it up in their own flat, Theia running up after them. Luckily, Mrs. Hudson had already pulled out her boxes of Christmas supplies and ornaments. John pulled out the tree holder and skirt, placing it in a corner.

John spent the rest of the day cleaning, Mrs. Hudson joining him every once and a while to help. Sherlock was perched in his usual chair, listening contently to the other two's chatter while rubbing the sleeping dog in his lap.

Even though Sherlock was useless at the moment he loved his current situation. Having the people, and animal, he cared for surrounding him, not judging or pitting him at all. Sherlock was sure if he wanted to get up and fumble around trying to do things John would not stop him but he didn't think that would do any good. He wanted to help. "John, is there anything I can do?"

"Sure, can you. Would you please start hanging ornaments on the tree?" Honestly, he had asked more to make himself feel a bit better than to actually help, so he was surprised when John had cheerily answered.

"Are you sure you want me to do that?" He hated that he had to ask. Sherlock hated the possibility of John thinking he was incapable but he knew he had to ask.

John turned to look at Sherlock, suddenly confused, _'Why did you ask if you were going to second guess yourself?'_ The look on Sherlock face made him realize what his was really about, "Why wouldn't I be?" He asked it gently enough to get across the comfort he wished to give the other man. John wanted nothing more than to go to the man and hug him and tell him it was all okay but he knew Sherlock would take it the wrong way. So he settled on using his words.

Sherlock stood up, which, disrupted the sleeping pup, who gave an unsatisfied yip in return. The box of glass ornaments was sitting in front of the tree, Sherlock, having already measured the tree earlier, started to place the glass balls in positions that would be visually pleasing. John had already put the lights on the tree when they first arrived so small places of warm would touch his hands as his nimble fingers decorated.

He was working on the sides when his hip bumped one of the ornaments off, it hit the ground, scattering glass around his bare feet. Sherlock reached down trying to clean up his mess, not wanting to bother John. But as soon as he does reach down a sharp shard stuck itself directly into the tip of his finger. Out of his mouth came a sharp grunt, he barley heard himself over John's rushed out words.

"Are you okay?" Sherlock hated the worry that was evident in John's voice…it sounded _wrong_.

"John, I'm fine."

"You're not fine! You're bleeding." John rushed over to him, bending down to gently pick up the glass that surrounded his feet. "Why didn't you just call me when it broke? Why would you do something so stupid?!"

Sherlock knew the other had just said it out of concern but he was furious John said it at all. Sherlock hated John in that moment, and then he hated himself for being so mad with the other man. Sherlock just felt so full of anger, so much so that he felt it coming off body in waves.

John looked up, surprised with the sudden silence. Sherlock was standing in front of him, teeth clenched and brow furrowed. John was shocked with himself. _'How could I just say that to him? How could I be so cruel?' _ "Sherlock…I'm sorry…I didn't."

"I know, John." Sherlock knew his words were harsh but he could not get rid of the bite to them.

"I just…" John didn't know what he could say to make it better. He wanted to make it better, John wanted the smirk from earlier to find it's way back to the man's face. "Let me clean your wound."

Having already cleaned the floor, John grabbed Sherlock's wrist softly pulling him along to the bathroom. "Get on the counter," came off as a tender command. Sherlock raised himself up with his good hand, holding the bloody one in his lap.

"This is going to hurt." John didn't want to entertain the man with false hope of sunshine and daisies. Getting a pair of tweezers, rubbing alcohol, and a bandage out of the medical cabinet, John started the task at hand. He poured the disinfectant over the tweezers, rubbing the prongs gently between his fingers, making sure they were sterile. Then he picked Sherlock's hand up, holding the pale thing in his own. The wound wasn't going to kill him but it sure did look like it had hurt. During John's service he had found that some of the smallest injuries hurt the most, '_like paper cuts.' _John looked back to the finger, his own hand now blooded to the point where the cut could have been his own.

"Okay, I'm going to pull it out now, I will count up to three. One…" John gripped the shard, pulling out at one. It slid out making the cut bleed more profusely. He reached over, quickly grabbing the cotton ball he had earlier wet with rubbing alcohol and placing it to the bleeding finger. Sherlock hissed in discontent, reflexively trying to pull the hand away but John's grip was too strong. John continued to wipe at the wound, finally happy with the job, he replaced the cotton ball with a bandage. Turning the hand, so that the palm was faced up then pulling it up to his lips to kiss.

Sherlock snatched his body, pulling him in to press between the other man's legs. Their lips smashed together and the overall kiss was angry and frustrated. Sherlock ran his tongue against John's lower lip, demanding entry, which John gave with the slightest moan. Sherlock only had time to run his tongue over the side of the other man's mouth before John pulled away, eyes wide, well, he assumed that was the look on the man's face. Sherlock could just yell he was so mad now, why was it that every time he tried to go farther with John the other just pulled away. He promised he would wait but he hated all this hot and cold from the blond.

John stood stalk still, staring at Sherlock's crotch. He had felt the man's boner against his own flaccid cock when he had stood on his tiptoes to kiss the man. It frightened him, yes, he had felt the other mans hard-on on his back but this was different. This was too much…he couldn't do it. John's body had literally flung itself off of the other without his command. He wanted to be able to be okay with it but his mind wouldn't let him.

The only thing that made him step back up to the irate man in front of him was the look of disappointment on Sherlock's face…sheer maddened disappointment. John rested his hands on Sherlock's thighs, letting his thumbs rub in small circles. "I just can't yet. I'm sorry." John knew the other would take this the wrong way and that no matter what he said it would accuse his actions.

"Whatever, John."

"Sherlock."

"Don't 'Sherlock' me. I am get extremely tired of you being wishy-washy all the time. You made me promise to give you time but you can't just keep giving me hope and then ripping it away. If you're not going to be okay with things I do stop them immediately." John was extremely surprised by how calm the other man seemed on the surface but John knew just under that he was boiling.

John tried to reach Sherlock's lips but the other man brushed him off just with a hurt, "Don't." Sherlock walked out of the bathroom and to his room, completely skipping out on the rest of the day. John had hoped by dinner, to which he cooked Sherlock's favorite, the other man would have emerged, alas he did not.

John tossed and turned in bed, not being able to find the same warmth that had been lulling him to sleep. Finally giving up, he hopped out of bed making his way down the halls but hesitating once he got to Sherlock's door. _'You can do this. We have been sleeping together for a few months now it's not weird. You can do this…just open the damn door. Move your fucking hand and open the door.'_ The little voice in his head whispered it was because this would be the first time John had went to Sherlock. _'I must be going mad if that voice is making sense. Okay, John, grow some balls and open the door.' _Finally, he got his hand to turn the handle, the door creaking open, not that it mattered, he knew the other man had already known what was happening as soon as his footsteps had wadded down the hall. Sherlock was lying on the far side of the bed, back faced away from the door. "Sherlock?"

The man didn't answer though, so, John climbed into the bed laying parallel to the other, staring at the back of his head. John slowly scooted closer until his body had finally found that warmth again. He wrapped his arm under Sherlock's arm and around his chest. Sherlock gasped under John's caressing hand, Sherlock relaxed slightly, giving into his…_'lover? This is what lovers do isn't it? Spending the time after fights cuddling as a way to say sorry, to avoid saying sorry?'_

"I'm sorry," John whispered as he gave the back of his neck a peck before nuzzling into Sherlock's hair. _'Or they could say it too. That is apparently a option.'_

"I am sorry, as well. Goodnight, John."

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Just so you guys remember I said Sherlock would grope "a certain thing" I never said what. :D  
Night guys! I hope to have the new chapter soon, I seem to just be writing up a storm.


	15. Of Family and Presents

Sorry it's been so long, my beta has been to busy to help me so I am currently betaless (sorry about that). If you would like to help me please contact me at dearjayycee

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John only had two lines left before he would be officially finished retyping Ernest Hemingway's 'For Whom The Bells Toll.' He had made many mistakes at first, having to retype many pages. John had almost gave up a few times after he would make a mistake at the bottom of a page, he wanted to either leave the mistake or stop typing all together. He knew the first option was not an option at all, Sherlock would see John's mistakes, and the second option would leave him gift-less. So, John forced himself to keep working. _'Type, type, type, type, type…. type.' _His mind when blank for a second, having realized he was done, there was nothing left to type. But as he looked at the page it felt incomplete. It felt impersonal, even though he knew it was extremely so.

John laid upside down in bed, staring at the ceiling looking for answers in the smooth surface. _'What could I possibly want to say. There's nothing left of the book so it must be me.' _There was a soft knock at the door, "Come in Sherlock." He picked up the typewriter in his closet while Sherlock moved to lie on his bed.

"So, what are you typing?" Sherlock was lying with his hands behind his head, legs crossed at the ankle, socked feet hanging of the end of the bed. He seemed relaxed.

John hadn't realized what the other had said until he had join him on the bed, taking a similar pose. "Who said I was typing anything?"

"John, you do realize I can hear you taping away, as well as the sound it makes every time you reach the end of a line."

"Oh."

Sherlock chuckled but it seemed to trail of in an odd way. He pulled an arm out from under his head, placing it at his side. John looked down to the space between them, it was about six inches, he noticed the way Sherlock was holding his arm was weird, almost as if he was… _'I see.' _John removed his hand next to Sherlock, pretending to scratch his stomach before placing it down at his side. The sides of their hands barley touching.

It was quiet neither of them talking, the air was tense and their eyes were locked on the ceiling. John knew he needed to make the first move. He needed to show Sherlock that he did want their relationship. John placed his hand on top of the other mans without intertwining it. Sherlock's hand remained still under his. _'Fine.' _John let his fingers slide between Sherlock's, the other man automatically squeezing back full force.

"I figured it out!" John let out in an excited scream then he looked over to Sherlock and giving his cheek a slight peck.

-.X.-

"Mrs. Hudson, do you need any help?"

"John, if you could be a dear and pull the ham from the oven, that would be wonderful." Her hands were currently busy with filling a pie, and Sherlock was currently setting the dinning table, so John grabbed her tiny pink oven mitts and removed the ham. The smell was intoxicating.

The doorbell rang, and Sherlock's head snapped up to face John. "Who is that?" John had purposely forgotten to tell Sherlock about the guests that would be joining them for dinner.

"Could you get the door?" John said as he placed the ham on the Christmas platter, then setting it on the table, Sherlock still standing with forks in his hands.

The doorbell rang again. "John, who's at the door?"

"Well, if you would get it you would know, now wouldn't you?" John didn't want to give the opportunity for Sherlock to run, or something.

"Who is at the door?" His tone was getting sharper and shaper with each syllable. He had become inpatient with time and Sherlock hoped the scowl on his face got across the message.

"Sherlock Holmes, get the door...now." Mrs. Hudson finally interjected, tired of the man's stubbornness. It was funny how she had sounded more like his mother than his landlady in that moment. Though she did always seem like a mother hen.

It was funny that he tried to stand his ground but Mrs. Hudson glared at him and apparently he felt it because Sherlock hurried to the door. It swung open, realizing Mycroft, Molly, and Lestrade stood there, Sherlock leaned back before any of them could say hello and called out a shocked "Really?" to John.

"Really."

"Hello, brother." Mycroft stepped in brushing passed Sherlock to go greet Mr. Hudson, '_or maybe to go to the food._ _Both seems likely.' _

"Hi, Sherlock. It's been so long, how are you?" Molly stood at the door with a hand sticking out towards the man in front of her. She didn't understand why he hadn't reached out to shake yet. Lestrade gently put her arm down, shaking his head at her.

Sherlock had heard her arm brush by her dress as if she put her arm out but he didn't care to shake it.

"Are you going to let us in?" Greg asked with the cockiness you only use with close friends.

"I guess I have to at this point." Sherlock stepped away from the threshold, letting the two past. In the time it took for Sherlock to answer the door John and Mrs. Hudson, along with the help of Mycroft, had got the table set, food covering the whole surface.

"Sherlock would you like water?" John called out hoping the man would realize he had left a seat open next to him. Though, John was sure Sherlock knew, he wanted to be certain. _'He can probably tell by which one of us smells most like dog,' _John joked. Sherlock pulled out the seat, allowing his body to go slack. Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft headed the table with Molly and Lestrade across from them. John didn't like the way Molly looked at Sherlock; her face screamed both pity and love. The little voice told him he was jealous, and once again he thought himself mad for agreeing.

"John, can you start by passing around the ham?" John pulled the hunk of meat in front of him, grabbing a piece for himself before handing the platter to Sherlock but before the man could even grab it, Molly interjected.

"Do you need any help?" She started to get up out of her chair, but Sherlock just gave her a clipped 'no' in response before serving himself then passing the plate on.

This kept happening throughout serving, Sherlock would get a dish and start to serve himself and Molly would ask if he needed help, most likely without realizing what she was doing, thoroughly irritating the man.

Once they got to the mashed potatoes, and Molly asked again, John asked her to see him out in the hall. She was confused by his request but followed him none-the-less. John sat down one the staircase patting the wood next to him, she sat down and he took a big sigh, as he got ready to talk to her.

"Molly, I know you're only trying to help but the only thing you can do for him is to stop asking. He is an adult and he is doing just fine with his situation, honestly, it's not even a problem. It's part of his life and that's all. If Sherlock wants your help he will ask for it." John hated doing this to her but he knew it would make Sherlock feel better in the end.

She looked down at the stairs, smile faltering but still firmly glued in place. He always wondered how she did that; it was one of the things John admired about Molly the most. "Oh…I'm sorry, John. I forget that he has you, and that you understand him. Thank you for being there for him, John." She gave a quick squeeze to his knee before getting up and walking back into the dinning room. John really did admire her strength, she really was a strong and beautiful women.

They sat back down, and it was quiet enough that others might have heard what was said. The next few minutes were tense, only the sound of silverware clanking could be heard. '_They had definitely heard.' _The tension was broken when Sherlock finally spoke, "Molly, could you pass the salt?" John squeezed Sherlock's knee, he was so proud of the way that the man had handled the situation.

"Of course," she reached across to grab the salt that had been sitting next to Sherlock's plate, placing it in his outstretched hand. Sherlock sprinkled a dash onto his mash before placing it back in the exact same place.

"I don't know why you're adding salt, my cooking is top notch." Finally, the tension was gone, everyone laughed at full force, Sherlock smiled and John silently gasped at the sight. It was always nice for him to see that, that beautiful smile.

The air during the rest of dinner was light, and the delicious food was much appreciated. The pie was wonderful, and after they were all well stuffed, some more than others, they headed up to the upper flat to sit and talk around the tree. Though the trip up the stairs had been horrendous with them all being contently full.

"Wow, the tree looks lovely." Molly cooed as she went over to admire the tree, gently touching the glass ornaments while everyone else sat down. Sherlock, John, and Mrs. Hudson sharing the couch with Lestrade and Mycroft resting in the armchairs.

"Sherlock decorated it." Mrs. Hudson beamed with pride, which Sherlock thought was misplaced since all he did was put shiny balls on a tree.

"It looks better than I could ever get it." Lestrade commented, all eyes on the lite up Christmas tree.

John went on to tell the story about how Sherlock picked out the full tree. Everyone laughing at the way John described the whole event, with Sherlock correcting him at every turn. Finally, when the story was over Molly walked back, eyes roaming the room looking for a seat, there was none. John got up and sat on the floor between Sherlock's legs allowing the women to take his place on the couch. She tried to assure John he didn't need to do it but he ignored Molly's nagging.

She finally relax into the seat and then Sherlock pulled back on John's head making the man look at him before reminding him, "you should go let Theia out."

"Who's Theia?" Molly and Lestrade questioned in tandem. John had forgotten the young pup whom was currently locked in his bedroom, they hadn't wanted anyone feeding her…as well as her problem with getting over excited.

"You'll see, just don't get excited."

John jumped up, jogging over to his room, and opening the door to find her curled up in the middle of the bed, sound asleep. He picked her up, cradling her in his arms; she was starting to get to big to carry about. The sleeping puppy woke up and started licking at his hands as he made his way to the living room. Her excitement peeked once she realized her living room was full of new people, Theia wiggled relentlessly in John's grasp, trying to escape his seemingly evil clutch. John sat back down in his spot between Sherlock's legs still holding the puppy to his chest, trying his hardest to get her to calm down while all the eyes in the room were on him.

"Theia." Sherlock's tone was flat and commanding, demanding the puppy relax, which she did. That tone went straight to John's belly, releasing butterflies against his insides. He let go of the now that she was calmed down and she walked around meeting all the new people with a quiet excitement.

They chatted all sharing new life events and such for hours. As time went by John became nestled against Sherlock's upper thigh, using the man's abdomen as a headrest. No one said anything about the intimacy and John wasn't worried about letting the others see because he trusted them. John didn't feel the need to protect his lost heterosexuality or the image of his masculinity. Whether or not any of them would admit it they were like a family...though they were a messed up family, they were still close.

Once the clock struck ten the guests decided it was time to depart, Sherlock and John walking them to the front door puppy at their heels.

Lestrade was the first to say his goodbyes, "Sherlock, come back as soon as you can. You're a genius, and a good man. We miss you, well, not Anderson and Donovan…but I miss you."

Sherlock stepped forward placing a gentle hand on Lestrade's shoulder, before giving him a cocky smile. "Don't worry, I didn't miss them either." Lestrade chuckled and Sherlock moved over to Molly giving her a quick squeeze, which caught the woman off guard. She gave a small gasp before quickly wrapping her arms around the tall man's waist. They could all see the visible awkwardness between the two and the out of character action of Sherlock. But John knew that the man did not have problems with physical contact, as many would believe, but rather a problem with expressing himself. Sherlock finally let go and Molly followed suit. They waved goodbye before Lestrade guided the lady out of 221B, hailing a cab for them to share. Mycroft was staring at Sherlock and John whom were now standing side by side with Theia rolling at their feet.

"I'm happy for you." Sherlock had forgotten his brother was still standing at the door, having gotten lost in the memories of yesterday's morning walk. It had been bright, the sun warming his skin as well as the warmth coming off of John, penetrating his coat. John had been talking about this and that, Sherlock being too preoccupied with how closely they were walking to listen. Sherlock got lost again in the memory, shaking himself out of it as he realized the sadness that had been in his brother's voice.

Sherlock wasn't sure why he felt the need to reassure Mycroft but he did. "Brother, I forgave you a long time ago." That was all he needed to say before Mycroft departed with a cocky little snort.

They walk back up stairs after saying goodnight to Mrs. Hudson, Theia yipping at their heels and John pulled the two gifts from under the tree while Sherlock got comfortable on the couch, John plopping down next to him. He handed the now leather bound book covered in wrapping paper to Sherlock, keeping the long, smallish, rectangular package in on his own lap. Whatever it was was long enough for John to have to lay it in the other man's lap as well.

"Open yours first," Sherlock encouraged with a small weary smile on his face. John wondered what he could be worrying about as he tugged the lid of the box off. Inside laid an ebony cane with an ivory head. John didn't know what to say, he could only gently touch the handle before staring up at Sherlock.

"It was my grandfather's. I know you don't need one anymore but maybe for when we grow old." Sherlock's face gave away none of the emotions he might be feeling, John was in shock. He understood fully that Sherlock, in his own way, had just stated he wanted to grow old with him. Even though John knew he loved the other man he still found the confession shocking, he had never expected Sherlock to say anything of the sort. John had been content in their agreement but it made him feel so much more comfortable with what he had ended his own present with.

John softly laid a shaking hand on Sherlock's thigh, signaling it was his turn. Sherlock tore away the paper to feel leather under his fingertips. He was extremely confused as to why John would give him paper goods, as his hand opens to the first page, it seems almost cruel. He moved his fingers over the page, small bumps all over it. _'Braille. So this is what you've been typing.' _Sherlock slid up to the top of the page slowly running his fingers over the first line, recognizing it by the fourth word. "Hemingway?" Sherlock asked quietly, John just humming in response. He lost himself in the happiness that rose in his chest, Sherlock pulled John into his side wanting to be close to the other.

John's breath hitched in surprise but he soon relaxed against the warm body laying the cane at his side. Sherlock pulled the blanket off of the top of the couch throwing it over their bodies and wrapping an arm around John, trying to get him as close as possible. John in turn pushed his legs over Sherlock's, almost sitting in his lap, and closed his eyes as he listened to the steady breathing. John listened to the way Sherlock's fingers speed up, as they got more comfortable with reading. Soon Sherlock laid his head against John's as he hit full speed letting his eyes close, content in his little world. And for once, he saw the upside to being blind; he could close his eyes and read…it was wonderful. He could fully focus on the words and nothing else, well, the words and the steady movements of John's chest against his.

John admired how fast Sherlock could read; he sat half conscious waiting for the other to get to the last line. It took about two hours, in which he nodded off every once and a while, before Sherlock turned his head kissing John's as his finger reread the last line making sure he had read it correctly. Sherlock had never been more content then when reading that short little line.

They feel asleep in that same position, Theia lying at their feet. But before they completely drifted off Sherlock softly suggested John should move into his bedroom, John just snuggled in closer in response, Sherlock took this as a 'yes'.

But that one little line haunted him in the most pleasing way through out the night. He couldn't even fight the smile that found its home on his face.

_"I love you, Sherlock Holmes. JW"_

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It's really upsetting I couldn't do what I had planned with that last line. I had planned to have it in braille but I was unable to do that on . Just incase as this story goes on and for whatever reason it get's deleted (most likely for up coming lemons) please go to my profile and use the AO3 link to read it in it's entirety.


	16. Can I, John?

Beta'd by the most wonder M.

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"Have you made enough space in your sock drawer yet?" John stood with a box full of undergarments in the threshold of Sherlock's room.

"Yes, John. I've consolidated a few of them." Sherlock had spent the past few hours trying to figure out what would be the best way to rearrange his room so that there would be ample space for both of them. His coats and scarfs now hung by the front door instead of in his closet to make room for John's jumpers, he had basically emptied it. _'John looks good in jumpers, no wonder he has so many.' _ John had also insisted on folding his dress-shirts and placing them in the wardrobe.

John shuffled into the room, placing his folded socks and pants into the top right dresser drawer, then headed back to his room to retrieve his trousers. Every box of things he removed made his room feel colder and made Sherlock's feel more inviting. John knew the other man was pleased with the development, not that he shouldn't be, by the way one thin eyebrow would rise with the side of his mouth at every new piece of clothing laid in the oak chest.

They had talked about what to do with the extra room once it was vacated. Sherlock suggested a lab and study room, which John agreed with readily. _'It will be nice to have to chemicals away from the food.' _That and he had always hated that stupid table in the middle of kitchen, John always banged into in the middle of the night whenever he went to get a drink.

After all the clothes were neatly folded and in their new home, John began to gather all his personal items. Sherlock took boxes of his experiment equipment into the kitchen, leaving them on the soon-to-be-moved table. They would need room to disassemble and move the large pieces of furniture out of the study before maneuvering them down three sets of stairs, Sherlock was grateful for the simplicity that was Ikea furniture.

Mycroft had been nice enough to send over a van with two men to take the furniture to a local charity, which John had suggested. Though, they hadn't asked for the help Mycroft just knew. John had always found the elder Holmes brother's omniscience a bit creepy but in the most caring of ways.

Once John was moved into Sherlock's room, and Sherlock's hobbies were finally moved into the new study, the flat felt so much bigger. John breathed a sigh of relief standing in the middle of their newly more spacious the kitchen. And then, just because he could, he started twirling, and waving his arms about, relishing the space.

Mrs. Hudson came in and laughed gently when she caught the sight of him. She had taken care of Theia for the day since her owners were too busy to properly care for her at the time. Theia jumped at the sight of the new space rolling mockingly. He didn't mind much though.

They all had dinner together, Mrs. Hudson made a delicious roast chicken, which was thoroughly enjoyed by all present. But at the end of the night when it was finally time for them to retire, John was a little nervous. There was now no escaping Sherlock; they shared a bed. Sure, he could go sleep on the couch but that wouldn't be good for his back. _'I sure didn't mind it the other day when we were cuddled on the couch,' _a voice in his mind supplied. The voice was starting to make too much sense for his liking; John would have to go see a doctor soon for that. _'I am the doctor.'_

He snatched up a pair of boxers and a nightshirt and moved to change in the loo while Sherlock disrobed in the room. After throwing his used clothes into the hamper he shyly walked back into the room, standing in the doorway looking at Sherlock who was sitting on the side of the bed…waiting for John.

"Come in, John."

His gaze snapped towards the floor, blush covering his cheeks, but he nonetheless followed the command. John moved to his side of the bed, gently sliding under the covers, worried about what might happen that night. He had been slightly embarrassed, but glad, when Sherlock gently reassured him that nothing needed to happen tonight. This knowledge helped to ease John's nerves a great deal, even if he didn't know what he we was anxious about in the first place.

"John, _we _don't need to do anything but would you mind if I…" Sherlock had laid back, his head now facing John.

John understood the implication; Sherlock had just asked if he could masturbate. _'It's not as if I have never done it, and it's not like I haven't been there when others have done it…I've just never been around a guy who was doing it. Except for that one time in my college dorm…' _the voice hastened to add,_ 'but that didn't count.' _

"Sure," it came out small and shaky. John turned to his side to give Sherlock some privacy as the other man turned off the lamp.

If anyone would ever ask, Sherlock would swear up and down that he had turned it off only for John's comfort. But if he was being honest, it was for his own. He was slightly uncomfortable with John being able to see his body fully but not being able to do the same in return.

Slowly, Sherlock's hands started to wander down his chest applying teasing pressure as he moved down his pale torso. He felt hyper-aware of John's presence next to him, picking up on every breath and even the slightest shift of sheets. In a way he was strangely glad in this moment that he could not see his lover_; 'John is not my lover yet.'_ Just the knowledge that John was near, and knew that everything Sherlock was doing was with thoughts of him caused Sherlock's arousal to increase at such a rate that he was afraid of moving too quickly and ending it all too soon. His body and mind were at war, the tingling and burning desire in his groin driving him to an end he had sought for so long. John was so close, his John, his beloved John right next to him, sharing this with him, however remotely, was both the greatest pleasure and keenest torture. Even his prized brain was not all of one opinion. Part of his mind was ever cautious. He knew that any advances would likely scare John off, but at the same time another part wanted John so desperately that he was almost willing to risk it all. He let his fingers move slowly down the sparse hair below his navel, following the trail until it lead to the waistband of his pants. Summoning up his courage, and taking solace in the fact that there was no way John could see him in his desperation, Sherlock gently brushed his knuckles over the tip of his quickly hardening cock. Even this small touch pulled a moan from his throat, and to his side, he felt John stiffen. Sherlock continued to let his fingertips rub over soft silken boxers, and quickly found the rational part of his mind losing the battle as blood-rushed southward. His thoughts, and every molecule of his body was fixated on John, screaming for his touch.

Sherlock felt himself being dragged under by the force of his arousal. His cock leaked and his boxers damped, Sherlock allowed himself some relief in the form of a tight fist around his aching length. The feeling was unlike any he had ever felt before. That John could have this effect on him just by lying by his side only drove Sherlock to new and dizzying heights. A familiar heat began to pool between his legs. Gasping and panting, he gripped tight for a while to calm himself. The knowledge that John was going to see this, to see Sherlock without any defenses, made him extremely anxious. John would know everything after tonight, after hearing what Sherlock was doing. Sherlock usually would take his time, seeing no need to rush, but here with the person he loved…it was hard to want to do anything other than run through the whole experience, chasing that spectacular end. A few moments later, Sherlock was reasonably sure he wasn't about to go off like a school-boy. Sucking in a breath, he ran his fist up his length, rubbing his thumb over the slit each time he reached the tip.

Sherlock only became aware of the other man's obvious arousal when a shaky groan and a twitch of seeking hips shook him from his own actions. His hand slowed, resting, waiting for the sign from John to continue. He wanted to know that the other man was doing this with him, that they were together in this race to a glorious finish. Sherlock wanted John to be so riddled with lust that he begged for mercy (…twice). Sherlock wanted him on the bed, the table, the couch, the floor, any way he could him. His hips thrust at the thought. Sherlock imagined spreading John out on every viable surface, another moan forced its way from his lips, and in response, John gasped ever so slightly. Sherlock grasped himself with new vigor, his breathy pants and whimpers driving John on. He wanted to make the other man fall apart beneath him, to hear his own name fall from those beautiful lips. Sherlock could feel himself getting closer to the edge and images of John were pushing him off.

He reached down to cup his testicles hoping to ease some tension, rolling them lightly in his palm. For the first time that he could remember, his treasured mind was somewhat muted, buzzing only with thoughts of John. Without even meaning to, John's name made it's way past his lips with each shaky breath. It took every last bit of his self-control not to reach out to the dear man who was lying less then a foot away. Sherlock's hand quickened as any control over his "transport" faded away. The drive for that sweet release was the only thing he could see, no longer constricted by pride, and if it made him a horny teenager, then he was more than chuffed to accept the title.

John had taken over every corner of Sherlock's mind. Every train of thought lead back to John. Every fiber of Sherlock's being longed for the other: his touch, his love. Sherlock's hand quickened, squeezing so tightly it almost hurt. Had he been at all mentally present, he might feel some slight shame in hearing the rhythmic, increasingly wet noises, his ragged panting, and lustful moaning. How had John brought him to this? Reduced him to a rutting creature, driven only by a desire for closeness, sex, and ultimately release. But John was beside him, though John was still wary, Sherlock knew that he wanted this too. The knowledge only served to drive Sherlock even higher. And when that beautiful high before the inevitable fall was finally within his reach, he found he could not hold back any longer. His hips flew upwards unconsciously to meet one increasingly unsteady hand. The other was fisted in the sheets to stop Sherlock from reaching out to John.

"Joh-_John!_ I- I want-," was all he could manage to choke out as he started spilled onto himself. Color exploded in his mind and a deafening roar of pounding blood sounded in his ears as he approached the peak of his climax. But just when he thought it would become unbearable, everything went intensely still. In his mind, there was reverberating silence like one hears with a violin after a string breaks. His body was so overwhelmed by the influx of stimulation and emotion that for a while it was as though he was not himself, but was instead observing from the outside. Pleasure both overwhelmed and muted every sense as he rode out wave after wave of shocking heat. Liquid warmth surged from low in his groin, up and out to land around his neck and on his chest in spurts that were nearly painful in their intensity. His body was no longer his own as he felt his hips thrashing seeking any last bit of stimulation. Muscles from his toes, through his thighs and abdomen pulled tight, his head snapped back into his pillow, and his shoulder blades nearly met behind his back in a wave that lifted him off the bed.

The whimper coming from next to him barely registered in his clouded mind as John reached a similar end. Sherlock's legs and spine collapsed back down, and he shivered as aftershocks wracked his body.

A tingling sensation covered Sherlock's entire body, coupled with lightheadedness he had not felt since his first cigarette. He could feel his pulse everywhere, in his stomach, between his thighs (and strangely in his second toes...perhaps an experiment was in order). Once he felt recovered enough to attempt movement, Sherlock flung a tired arm across John's body to grab a tissue from the side table, letting it rest across John's shoulder. He just wanted to touch John, to be close but he knew the other man was not ready for much more than what had just happened. Sherlock was glad it happened at all. He wiped the warm, sticky liquid off of his stomach and listened John sheepishly do the same. Sherlock lazily tossed his tissue at the wastebasket.

After a small beat, Sherlock quietly asked, "Can I hold you, John?" He did not want to push his luck. If the other man didn't want to be touched after what had just happened then Sherlock would have to accept and respect John's limitations. Even if he didn't like it.

If Sherlock had not been close enough to feel and hear the shift of the pillow around John's head, the small nod he responded with would have gone undetected. A warmth spread through Sherlock's chest, and even though he would have rather John answer 'yes' he was afraid to push their tender, new relationship so soon. Tentatively reaching over, Sherlock gently wrapped his arms around John's warm, soft waist, pulling him in closer, and trying not to cling too tightly.

"Goodnight, John." Sherlock whispered as he pressed a kiss to the blond hair in front of him, before finally drifting off to sleep.

* * *

So that was one of my first le sexy time scene so tell me what you think of it.


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